Mistaken Identity
by Evenmoor
Summary: After a chance meeting in Colorado Springs, Methos recognizes a mysterious blue-eyed man, five thousand years dead. Daniel Jackson, meanwhile, mistakes Methos for the Goa'uld Tanith, and reacts rather poorly. The situation only grows more complicated when Amanda comes to Colorado Springs, hunting down a rogue Immortal with an unknown agenda.
1. A Case of Mistaken Identity

There's always going to be the circumstances you can't plan for. There's always the unexpected relevance and the serendipity.

-Jason Silva

* * *

><p>One warm, bright morning, the world's oldest man sat outside a cafe in Colorado Springs, drinking a cup of halfway-decent coffee and skimming the articles in the newspaper on the table<p>

Methos sipped his coffee absently, his eyes barely even seeing the words on the page in front of him. Something about unrest in the Middle East (when wasn't there?), a sex scandal involving a prominent politician (boring, and old news, to boot), a reality television star going off the rails... He was just about to give up on the paper entirely when someone bumped into him from behind and spilled his coffee.

He let out a rather rude word as the hot liquid spilled over his paper, though it was more an obligatory invective than anything else. At least he was now saved from actually reading that utterly mind-numbing garbage.

"I'm sorry, I really am," babbled the man who had bumped him, as he grabbed some napkins from a nearby dispenser.

"Really, it's no problem." Methos suddenly froze. As he got a good look at him, he realized that he knew this man from somewhere.

The man – more specifically, his eyes, _those brilliant blue eye_s – struck a chord deep in Methos's memory. An Immortal's memory was long (it had to be), but, as he had once confessed to MacLeod, for one as old as he it all got a bit blurry past five thousand years. For some reason, though, something came to him in a flash, from some dusty corner of his brain.

_"Dan-yer?" _The word, the _name_, spilled from Methos's lips almost without him consciously being aware of it. The memory of this man's face was so unbelievably old that Methos had trouble calling it up. _How could this man be here?_ Methos's mind fought furiously for answers. He felt no Buzz, no tell-tale sign of Immortality in this familiar stranger. How could it be, then, that Methos had run into a man absolutely identical to another man who had died five millenia ago?

But the situation abruptly grew even stranger.

_"Tanith?!"_ the strange man exclaimed, napkins in hand completely forgotten as he scrambled backwards, surprised just as much as Methos. The man's face was pale as a sheet. "You're supposed to be dead!"

"'Tanith'?" Methos repeated in growing confusion, now blinking in his own turn. The name 'Tanith' was Phoenician, but he'd never been a 'Tanith' before, and he remembered all his aliases over the years. "I'm afraid you've mistaken me for someone else," he objected quickly, deciding that discretion was the better part of valour and he should probably just leave and forget the entire bizarre encounter ever took place.

Of course, he should have remembered that the universe had its way of laughing at any plans made by man.

When the troop of black-clad commandos broke into his motel room in the middle of the night and shot him with some sort of bizarre electro-gun, Methos regretted not leaving Colorado Springs immediately. Because, as it turned out, the strange blue-eyed man heralded even more trouble than a certain Highlander of his acquaintance.

* * *

><p>It was the middle of the night, and the commanding officer of Stargate Command was definitely not <em>happy<em>.

General Hank Landry's bushy eyebrows rose up nearly to his browline as he sat heavily in the chair of the observation room. "Dr. Jackson, it's very late, and I'm tired. Didn't I read somewhere that Tanith was dead? Teal'c blew out the cockpit of his al'kesh with a staff weapon, if I remember correctly."

"If that's _not_ Tanith, it's his identical twin brother who also knows my name," Daniel insisted, pacing back and forth. "It wouldn't be the first time that a Goa'uld hid out on Earth, right under our noses."

Unknowingly mirroring Daniel, their captive paced back in forth in the isolation room below them, obviously agitated and upset. He'd regained consciousness from the zat blast _a lot_ sooner than anyone had thought he would, even for a Goa'uld; this would have been less surprising had he been subjected to multiple zat attacks over a long period - by the end of Jack O'Neill's field duty with SG-1, for instance, he was barely even knocked off his feet anymore by the excruciating electrical shock.

"Whoever you people are, this is a violation of my human rights!" the man objected strenuously from inside the locked room. His accent sounded British, possibly with shadows of Welsh in it. "I don't know who you think I am, but my name is Adam Pierson! I was just passing through! What kind of country is this?!"

Dr. Lam entered the observation room, a pensive frown on her face. "Well, whoever he is, he's not a Goa'uld host," she announced to the general, handing over the file.

"What, so he _is_ the guy's identical twin brother?" Daniel repeated in utter incredulity, practically overcome with frustration. "I mean, he looks exactly the same!"

"Oi! Are you going to tell me what's going on, or what?" the man in question shouted in annoyance.

General Landry grimaced.

"'Adam Pierson,'" he read off their captive's file. "Historian?" His expression was one of pure disbelief as he glared at Daniel. "Doctor Jackson, please tell me we didn't just abduct a civilian from his bed in the middle of the night..."


	2. Language Is the Thing

Methos paced the room in annoyance. Why was this happening? This was Colorado Springs, not Paris, and MacLeod was nowhere in sight. Usually, it was the blasted, do-gooder Highlander who dragged Methos into danger; Methos, for his own part, did his best to avoid trouble as much as possible, all the better to keep his head.

And yet, through no fault of his own, trouble had literally busted through his door in the middle of the night. He'd been attacked in his sleep before, of course, but never by black-clad commandos who knocked him out with some sort of bizarre electrical gun. At least none of them had been Immortal, else he might have soon become headless. Straining his senses to the maximum, he still could not feel a Buzz anywhere in the vicinity.

This, however, was something of a cold comfort, given that he had no idea who it was that was holding him captive, nor if they somehow knew he was Immortal. He couldn't even begin to describe the danger for his kind if some sort of military organization knew the truth about the existence of Immortals.

He couldn't see into the observation room, but he knew they were watching him from behind the mirrored glass. This _had _to do with that fellow he'd bumped into at the cafe. The man who had mistaken him for someone called 'Tanith.'

The mortal, five millenia dead and turned to dust somewhere in the sands of a world long gone.

Slowly, almost painfully, his memories started to come into focus - he'd been _so young_! Long, long before he'd taken his first head, back when he lived in Egypt, and doing his best to stay out of sight and unnoticed. It was the same man; he felt the certainty in his very bones.

_Dan-yer_.

How is this possible? It made no sense. There was no rational way that a mortal from five thousand years ago could be here today, in Colorado Springs, of all places. But there was no mistake; those remarkable blue eyes, the shape of his face, the color and cut of his hair, even the way he stood when he had faced Methos for those brief moments at the cafe.

Methos smiled slightly, sitting down in the chair facing the mirrored window. Unlike many people, both mortal and Immortal, he was really rather flexible in his world-view. He could accept things seemingly impossible. How else could he have survived as long as he had?

_There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy..._

~o0o~

"Let me try something," Daniel suggested, his eyes narrowing as he observed Adam Pierson from the other side of the glass. Their captive had ceased pacing and was now sitting at the table, looking up at the window with a strangely distant smile.

"Be my guest, Dr. Jackson," replied the general. Landry was used to long hours, especially given the nature of their jobs here at the SGC, but that didn't mean he especially _enjoyed_ hanging around the base after midnight based on an archaeologist's hunch about a man who he literally ran into at a cafe in Colorado Springs.

Daniel turned to the microphone and spoke to the man below. "_Who are you?_" he asked in carefully enunciated Goa'uld.

The man laughed abruptly, his eyes crinkling with apparent mirth, startling the archaeologist. He said something in reply, shaking his head in amusement. Daniel stared down at him, perturbed.

"Well?" General Landry asked somewhat impatiently.

"He just told me that my accent is terrible. In Ancient Egyptian."

Dr. Lam held up her hands defensively when her father shot her a bemused glance. "Don't look at me! All I know at this point is that he's not a Goa'uld."

"Why don't you come down so we can have a proper conversation?" the man interrupted, leaning back in his chair with a strangely smug expression on his face for a person in a locked room guarded by military personnel.

Daniel turned a questioning gaze to the general, who seemed perfectly content to sit and watch.

"This is your show, Dr. Jackson. Just don't wait all night to make up your mind," Landry replied, folding his arms across his chest.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **The quote at the end of Methos's portion comes from Shakespeare's _Hamlet_, Act 1, Scene 5.


	3. Vis à Vis

Methos had immediately recognized the voice that had addressed him through the microphone. It was the same one that apologized for bumping into him at the cafe earlier, that told him he should be dead. A stray memory flitted across his mind, an echo of the same voice.

_Hope is one of the most precious things a man can possess..._

Words, spoken in clear, barely-accented Egyptian, completely at home with the local population. In contrast, the demand for Methos's identity had been almost unintelligible, some bizarre, bastardized dialect he'd never heard before.

He more than half expected them to completely ignore his challenge to come down and talk to him face-to-face. The people who kidnapped him certainly weren't so concerned for what he wanted.

So Methos was actually somewhat surprised when the heavy door slid open, and _Dan-yer_ himself entered the room. Instead of the normal street clothes he had been wearing earlier at the cafe, the other man wore what looked suspiciously like military attire, all in black. Near his shoulders on his sleeves were spots of velcro where some sort of patches would normally be attached, but were currently empty. The only thing that remained of his previous self from the cafe were the glasses he pushed up his nose as he sat down across from Methos.

Perhaps most importantly, though, Methos still could not sense anything; whoever he was, he was definitely no Immortal. Lounging back in his chair, Methos smiled slightly as he continued his careful evaluation of the man.

"Thank you ever so much for coming down here. Now you can tell me why you kidnapped me in the middle of the night and locked me up incommunicado," Methos remarked casually, snatching the initiative in this interview.

"How is it you can speak Ancient Egyptian?" _Dan-yer_ (or whoever he was) asked slowly, ignoring Methos's question.

Methos rolled his eyes, pouring on the sarcasm as much as possible, though he was already more puzzled than angry at this point. Of all the things for the man to ask, this was it? How he spoke a language? _Curiouser and curiouser_, as Lewis Carroll put it. "I'm an historian. Really, do your research!"

~o0o~

The so-called Adam Pierson seemed far too confident and smug. Whoever he was, he definitely knew something and was holding it back, and it was annoying Daniel.

"A historian," Daniel said flatly. A historian, just as the file said. A historian being interrogated by an archaeologist. Was this some sort of joke - one at his expense?

"Currently on sabbatical from Paris, if you must know," drawled Pierson, just as arrogantly as Tanith ever was.

The resemblance was eerie - the same regal nose and dark hazel eyes under (currently somewhat messy) dark brown hair. Even his voice sounded just like that of Tanith's host, Hebron of Paraval, if one ignored the sarcastic inflections. The only things missing were the pompous robes and the Goa'uld vocal distortion.

"Now, earlier you seemed to think that I'm some bloke named Tanith," the man continued in a tone that danced between reasonable and amused annoyance. "You've got the wrong man, I can assure you!"

None of this made sense. Daniel was growing somewhat frustrated, and nothing was becoming any clearer. What were the chances that this was all a mere coincidence, a universal fluke, that brought a man who looked exactly like Tanith to the very cafe Daniel happened to be at that day? "Who are you, then?" he asked the man across from him.

Pierson slouched even more lazily in the chair, a position that struck Daniel as being strangely more reminiscent of Jack O'Neill than Tanith. It was, all things considered, a rather odd, and definitely unsettling, realization.

"I already told you people several times while you were watching me through the glass. My name is Adam Pierson. And, as I informed you only moments ago, I'm an historian. Though I suppose it doesn't really matter if you don't believe me. You have my ID, passport, and fingerprints. You tell _me _who I am," the man smirked challengingly.


	4. Qui et Ubi

Methos doubted these people (whoever they were) would see past his cover identity as Adam Pierson. Five thousand years was more than plenty of time to perfect the skill of creating and ensuring an identity. Simply put, he was _very_ good at it. And these days, a flawless cover was growing more and more essential; the increase in security measures since 2001 hadn't helped Immortals at all, and it was only going to get worse as technology advanced.

So, Methos made it a point to always be as meticulous and fastidious as possible when it came to his primary identities - one of the reasons he rarely got involved in trouble with the law. Today, they had fingerprints, DNA, facial recognition software... The next few decades, he guessed, would see a lot of the less careful Immortals find themselves in serious trouble.

Methos, however, did not fall into that category.

For all intents and purposes, he _was_ Adam Pierson. He had a birth certificate, credit history, and a job, even library cards. Adam Pierson had existed, both on paper and in fact, for more than twenty years. (Although, he admitted, it was well past time to retire the name.) So, all in all, Methos wasn't overly worried that these people would figure out that Adam Pierson was merely the latest in a long line of lives he'd lived.

"And, while we're on the subject of identity, how about you tell me who _you _are?" Methos demanded provocatively, leaning forward over the table, actively invading the other man's personal space. "You neglected to introduce yourself before your commando squad so rudely kidnapped me."

There seemed to be a certain amount of chagrin on the man's face. "You knew my name earlier," he countered, blinking in bemusement. This man was probably terrible at poker; if he had any decent friends, they'd never let him play. Ever. Which, of course, begged the question as to why they'd let such a transparent person conduct an interrogation.

Methos rolled his eyes. "You and I met before in Egypt, many years ago. You have a fairly memorable face. I meant _less _specifically."

~o0o~

Daniel tried in vain to place the man's face as anyone other than Tanith. Though, he mused, even if the man weren't a Goa'uld, he was just as arrogant as one, although perhaps not as obviously megalomaniacal.

If this were just a massive case of mistaken identity, the terms 'awkward' and 'embarrassing' wouldn't even begin to cover the flak he'd be getting, not just from General Landry, but also from Jack. And maybe even the president.

"'Less specifically'? Oh, I, I, I work for the government," he stammered vaguely, avoiding the question. He wasn't about to say he worked for a military program that traveled to other planets through an ancient alien artifact on a daily basis, after all. "Where in Egypt did we meet? I'm surprised I don't remember you."

It was no less than the honest truth, as far as Daniel was concerned. Pierson, so far, had demonstrated a very memorable presence and didn't seem afraid to make himself heard. Their initial meeting, if Pierson was even telling the truth, would have had to have been a very long time ago indeed for Daniel to have no recollection of it at all.

He hadn't missed Pierson's deliberate invasion of his personal space, either. Passive, he was _not_.

Pierson, meanwhile, smirked with an expression of disinterested satisfaction. "Oh, you work for the government, do you? I suppose the commando squad could have been private contractors, but covert military personnel makes much more sense, all things considered. Particularly that stun gun of theirs. Hardly standard issue, don't you think?" Pierson stared shrewdly at him, a calculating gleam in his eyes as he leaned back in his chair. Definitely no fool. "As to where we met, it was in a tent near Ra's pyramid."

Wait, _Ra's pyramid?!_


	5. What's in a Name?

"There's no such pyramid," the other man retorted, a bit too quickly, his blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. He seemed to be trying to deduce why Methos would make such an apparently ridiculous claim. Well, it _had_ been Ra's Pyramid, Methos was sure of that, and he had more than a sneaking suspicion that Dan-yer (or whoever he was) knew far more than he claimed about that particular pyramid.

Methos again wondered why this man's comrades? colleagues? superiors? let him conduct an interrogation. For a guy working for a shadowy government agency, he really wasn't very good at hiding his feelings.

Though, to be fair, Methos had quite a bit of practice reading people. And this person, Dan-yer, he was spooked about something, no doubt his apparent doppelganger, this 'Tanith' fellow. A man who was apparently supposed to be dead.

"Really? It was quite a long time ago. Maybe I'm mistaken," Methos shrugged with completely feigned innocence. Whoever this Tanith was, he was really starting to annoy him. Inwardly, Methos concentrated on retrieving his distant, faded memories; he had a gnawing feeling that those foggy threads of thought would prove to be the key to... something.

Daniel took off his glasses and wearily rubbed his eye. He seemed exhausted.

Abruptly, something clicked in Methos's mind. It was as if the final tumbler on a safe had fallen into place, and he was on the verge of opening the door to a cascade of memory.

It hadn't been 'Dan-_yer_' at all. It was 'Dan-_yel_'. From the Hebrew _Daniyyel_, meaning _God is my judge_. Though, in modern English convention, it was spelled 'Daniel.'

_Daniel..._

_...Jackson_.

Daniel Jackson.

A name that had sat so strangely on his tongue five thousand years ago, yet was so perfectly ordinary today.

~o0o~

Ra's Pyramid?

Was it a mistake, a slip of the tongue, or something more?

None of the Great Pyramids were known as 'Ra's Pyramid.' And Ra had not been to Earth since the his slaves rebelled against him and the Goa'uld, driving them away, thousands of years ago. In their pyramid-shaped ships...

And yet, something didn't add up. Pierson spoke a long dead language with far too much ease, even for an expert linguist. Even Daniel, one of the best linguists on the planet, couldn't properly speak a dead language without a point of reference. Yet, somehow, it seemed to flow naturally from Pierson's lips, almost like he grew up speaking it.

Despite Daniel's tiredness, a whole realm of possibilities opened up before him.

Not a Goa'uld, apparently, but there were others out there... could he be an Ancient, like Orlin, returned to human form? Sam had said that Orlin had chosen his physical appearance by watching television, of all things, so it wasn't beyond belief that another one like him could have chosen a form just like that of Tanith (or, more accurately, Tanith's host Hebron).

"Ani tu Anquietas?" he asked carefully in that language, minding his pronunciation. _Are you an Ancient?_ His heart sped up at the thought that Pierson might be one of them. There were so few of them left on this plane of existence. The knowledge of the Ancients could explain all of Pierson's seemingly-impossible insight.

"Is that supposed to be Latin?" Pierson scoffed mockingly, not even missing a beat. Either he was playing hard to get, or he truly did not recognize the language. "Because it's practically unintelligible. First you mangle Ancient Egyptian, now Latin. Honestly, if you're supposed to be a linguist of some sort, you're a pretty terrible one as far as I'm concerned."


	6. Insight, Or Lack Thereof

Oddly, Daniel Jackson appeared nonplussed by Methos's scorn of his lingual skills, as if he had been expecting some entirely different reaction to his words. It was almost as if the two of them were holding two completely separate conversations at the same time.

It was actually a little disconcerting, all things considered.

It would help, Methos decided, if he actually knew what Daniel and his friends were after. Tanith? He was dead, though, according to Daniel. Methos supposed that Tanith being alive would be a very serious problem, if it instigated a middle-of-the-night kidnapping and interrogation.

And what was with the mangled Egyptian and Latin? Was this Tanith a foreigner of some sort, who would recognize the bizarre words? Maybe he was a terrorist? That would certainly explain the interest of the United States military.

But it did _not_ explain Daniel Jackson.

The Daniel Jackson of Methos's memories had claimed to have been from far, far away. It was true, of course, that in those days 'far away' could have been as little as a hundred miles. The world was so much bigger back then. But Daniel had given the impression of a much greater distance, some place so far that he couldn't hope to return.

Indeed, though Daniel spoke the local language with great ease, he had a very odd accent at times. Looking back from a modern perspective, the occasional strange pronunciations sounded almost... _American_...

Methos needed more time to gather his thoughts and examine those memories more closely. And it would be very difficult to do that and hold an interrogation at the same time.

"Now, I don't mean to be rude, Daniel - can I call you Daniel? - but I am really tired," Methos sighed. It wasn't even a lie. "Your little commando squad did, after all, kidnap me in the middle of the night - out of quite a sound sleep, I'll have you know. Can we continue this conversation later?"

~o0o~

Daniel felt a tension headache building behind his eyes. Part of him was certain that somehow, despite sitting across a table from each other, they weren't seeing eye to eye.

It was like Pierson knew _some_thing, and thought Daniel knew something, too, but whatever that thing _was_ eluded Daniel completely at the moment. It was beyond frustrating.

Pierson was far too glib, and every answer he gave seemed designed to elicit a reaction.

Pierson's use of Daniel's first name was definitely calculated, for instance, most likely to annoy him or throw him off-guard. His constant sarcasm seemed a combination of defensive tactic and offensive weapon - Pierson was far, far more uncomfortable with his current situation than he let on, he was sure of it.

Daniel silently thanked his years of enduring Jack O'Neill's attitude to recognize the behavior for what it was. Not that he'd ever let Jack know.

"_Dr. Jackson, Dr. Lam has discovered some additional insights on our 'guest_,'" General Landry's voice suddenly crackled in his earpiece, interrupting anything he was about to say.

Pierson smirked again infuriatingly, obviously recognizing whatever subtle reaction Daniel gave to the news. "Hearing voices, are we?" he drawled, rocking backwards in his chair. "Oh, carry on. Don't mind me. I'll just take a nap here while you talk amongst yourselves."

Daniel couldn't stop the annoyance from flashing across his face as he stood up. "Don't go anywhere," he replied sarcastically. Oh, yeah, he really had spent too much time around Jack O'Neill...

"Oh, that's hilarious. Bloody brilliant."


	7. Fire and Blood

Daniel thankfully left the room without any further quip or remark, no doubt to confer with his colleagues where Methos couldn't hear them.

There was no use worrying about the content of their conversation. He had other matters to attend to at the moment, anyway.

Folding his hands on the table, Methos straightened up in his chair and closed his eyes. His breathing slowed, and slowed more. His awareness turned inwards, and he opened the mental 'safe' on those memories of thousands of years ago.

A cascade of sensations nearly buried him, but he'd been around too long to allow himself to be overwhelmed by mere memories. Using mental discipline honed by millenia, Methos controlled the sudden rush and focused on one thought that would lead him to the rest.

The sun.

The first thing that washed over him was heat, and the brightness that burned his eyes and scorched his skin, the smell of unwashed bodies and camel dung.

The blazing light, shining off the sand.

The innocuous encampment, hiding a great secret beneath its rough tents, amongst the cowering slaves who called it home.

He was so young, so very young! And afraid. Afraid... of the servants of Ra, the Sun God - Men, but not men, with helms shaped like cruel falcons, beaks glistening in the unforgiving daylight as they marched relentlessly, mercilessly. They carried the will and power of the Sun in their hearts and in their staffs.

None dared defy the power of Ra. Not even the man who would one day sow terror and despair across the lands as the Fourth Horseman, Death on a pale horse. Even so early in his life, he had the wisdom to stay out of sight and unnoticed, avoiding the gaze of those who called themselves gods.

And then he learned of the mysterious Blue-Eyed Man, who bore a strange, foreign name. _Daniel Jackson_...

~o0o~

Daniel wearily climbed the steps to the observation room; he either needed an enormous cup of coffee, or he needed to sleep for the next three days. Either way, he was bone-tired. His annoyance with Pierson and the whole ridiculous mess definitely wasn't helping.

Carolyn Lam was waiting for him, her expression confused and perhaps a little disturbed.

"What've you found out?" He was hoping for something good, something to maybe get him out of feeling like a complete idiot in there. A Rosetta stone might be handy around this point...

"I just got back some rather interesting results from the genetic tests we were running on Mr. Pierson's DNA," she explained pensively.

Her father frowned, his bushy eyebrows coming together on his forehead. "I thought you wouldn't have anything more for several hours at the earliest."

"For the full analysis, yes. But this was flagged right off. And, let me tell you, it was pretty weird. To put it in simple terms, his DNA has certain characteristics far more common to an Ancient. Now, normally, this wouldn't be detectable or would be completely ignored-"

"-but we have a bit more experience and technology in that department," finished Daniel. It seemed that the more they learned about Adam Pierson, the the fewer answers they had.

Curiouser and curiouser...


	8. Ancient Times

They spoke the legend of him in whispers, the Blue-Eyed Man who did not fear Ra.

Wherever he went, he spoke to anyone who would listen, telling stories of a people much like them who had thrown off the yoke of Ra's slavery, and he prophesied that one day the people of Egypt would do the same.

He spoke with a calm certainty and assurance in his words - it was as if, for him, he was not foretelling the future, but telling a story of events that had already happened. A few even claimed that he had said as much to them, though no one could really understand what he meant by that.

Some laughed at Daniel, thinking him a fool or a madman, and not worthy of attention or concern.

Others, fearful that he may bring down the wrath of Ra upon them, cursed him and told him to be silent.

But others, many others, gathered to him, grasping every word like a man lapping at precious drops of water in the desert. They listened to his tales of hope and freedom, and passed them on in secret to others, for in him they had discovered something so strange, so amazing, something perhaps beyond simple human understanding, as if he knew exactly how the future would unfold.

They said that his eyes were like the sky had been trapped in two orbs, boundless and brilliant and full of mystery.

No one had eyes like his.

~o0o~

Daniel glanced down at the man in the iso room. He was in a meditative posture, eyes closed, breathing slow. He could have been asleep, but it reminded Daniel more of Teal'c during kel'no'reem. "So, I'm guessing we're looking at more than just the ATA gene here," the archaeologist remarked as he turned his attention back to General Landry and Dr. Lam.

"Much more," Carolyn agreed emphatically. "But we really need to complete the comprehensive analysis of his DNA to get a better idea of what's going on. Don't get me wrong, he's definitely human, but there's something very weird going on in there."

"But Walter hasn't found anything to prove he isn't who he says he is," General Landry pointed out. "Birth certificate, credit history, employment background, it's all there."

"Ancient DNA..." Daniel frowned in contemplation. "We know that the Ancients intermarried with humans."

"Like when they returned to Earth from Atlantis," Lam put in. "But that was over 10,000 years ago. Colonel Sheppard is the closest, genetically speaking, that we've ever found to the Ancients in the general human population. The ATA gene is pretty much the last genetic trace of them to stick around, and we all know how rare even that is. Everything else has gotten lost over the years."

"Orlin..." Daniel chewed his lip as a thought occurred to him. "When he retook human form, he was, essentially, human, which was one of the reasons he couldn't hold onto all the Ancient knowledge he needed to. But there were still certain _aspects_ about him, right? Genetically speaking, I mean?"

Carolyn opened her mouth to say something, but snapped it shut a moment later, her face thoughtful as she considered the question.


	9. Human in Name Only

No one knew where the Blue-Eyed Man had come from, but he had not come alone. It was said that three others had appeared with him - an elder warrior with a sharp tongue, a traitorous servant of the Serpent God, and a tall wise-woman with exotic golden hair.

But when they attempted to lead a too-hasty rebellion against the Sun God, Daniel's three companions were soon captured. Ra himself publicly executed them to demonstrate his power, and to ensure no one would dare question his rule again.

Ra, however, failed to capture the last member of that strange company, for Daniel was at home amongst these people as surely as if he were one of them himself, despite his strange eyes. And so it was, despite the best efforts of the Sun God's Jaffa, they could never find their quarry.

After the deaths of his friends, Daniel began to travel from place to place, telling his stories and slowly gathering followers and weapons to one day make a second attempt to overthrow the rule of the cruel Sun God.

"Ra _will _be driven from here, and one day, he _will _be destroyed," he assured anyone who would listen.

The man who would one day become the legendary Methos heard the whispers of the Blue-Eyed Man, and he began to wonder who this man was. Why he was set on such a quest that would surely end in his death and that of all who followed him, and why so many would so gladly go to such a fate on this man's word?

He had to meet the Blue-Eyed Man.

~o0o~

"Is it possible that he's a descended Ancient like Orlin?" Landry turned his questioning gaze on his daughter.

"We don't exactly have much of a genetic baseline for formerly non-corporeal beings," she protested sardonically. "Daniel, for instance, is still straight-up human, exactly the same as he was before he ascended in the first place."

"But..." Daniel prompted, hearing the unvoiced word.

"But there's nothing to contradict that hypothesis, either," she admitted.

"If he is, he's almost definitely suffering from severe memory loss," frowned Dr. Lam, crossing her arms over her chest. "Orlin's memory loss was almost complete, and definitely crippling, but this guy seems almost normal... if a bit annoying."

"Yes, but at the time, Orlin was trying really hard to hold onto a lot, way too much." And he'd saved everyone, in the end, except himself. Sam still visited him at the long-term care facility sometimes, when she was back on Earth. "If Pierson, hypothetically speaking, chose only to remember a little, isn't it reasonable that he might not suffer from the same mental degradation?"

"Again, we don't have much of a basis for comparison. But I agree, it's not... unreasonable," she admitted unwillingly, as if the reply was being pulled out of her.

"And, given what we know about Adam Pierson, he would have to've retaken human form decades ago," Daniel mused as he glanced down at Pierson below. "Lived pretty much an ordinary human life since then."

"So, if your theory is correct, he might not even know or understand what he is," General Landry remarked.

His daughter winced slightly. "I'd say that's a good possibility."

"It doesn't explain how he recognized Dr. Jackson."

"Actually, it might," Dr. Lam contradicted him thoughtfully.


	10. Something Old, Something New

It took Methos a while to track down this mysterious stranger. But only a fool discounted the determination of an Immortal on the hunt.

It seemed that every encampment he visited had heard stories of him, tales they shared with him only hesitantly; he was a stranger, after all, and could have been a servant of Ra or one of the other gods.

His true secret would have terrified them all the more if only they knew. Of course, if they had known, his beheading would probably follow soon after. Some secrets were best when kept.

Almost by chance, Methos stumbled onto the camp where the mysterious Dan-yer was hiding. Methos feigned humility and servility very well, and while they didn't welcome him with open arms, they didn't cast him to the tender mercies of the desert, either.

Once he found Dan-yer, he spoke to him for several minutes, only to be left even more confused and frustrated than before. He had almost expected to find another Immortal like himself, but the man he met - despite his prophecies and behavior - didn't even have the feel of a man who would one day _become_ an Immortal.

It seemed the Blue-Eyed Man was just that: a man. And a mad one, at that.

_"If I told you I was born in the future, what would you say?"_ was the absurd question Dan-yer put to him.

After that encounter, there was no doubt in Methos's mind that Dan-yer was a charismatic leader. A complete and utter lunatic, of course, but he could see why people would follow him. Give a parched man a little water, and he'd do anything for a tiny drop more.

He left the camp later that day, altogether disappointed with the outcome of his venture. Maybe there was something interesting to the east...

~o0o~

Daniel and the general stared at the doctor in confusion. "How does any of this explain Pierson recognizing me?" the archaeologist questioned.

"Well..." Carolyn suggested somewhat hesitantly, "we know that there was an alternate SG-1 that went back in time to Ancient Egypt."

Daniel's eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline. "They giftwrapped a ZPM for us after they stole it from Ra." And left a video recording of their presence in Ancient Egypt, much to the understandable shock of the archaeologists who found it.

"What if Pierson knew _that_ Daniel?"

Abruptly, the phone rang. General Landry picked it up. "Yeah, this is General Landry. Yes. Okay, put him through." He listened for several long moments. "Okay, good work. Bring everything back to the SGC," he ordered before putting the receiver down. "They finished their search of Mr. Pierson's room and car. They found some stuff up your alley, Dr. Jackson, ancient documents and such."

"Ancient as in 'old' or Ancient...?" Daniel queried curiously.

"Not Alteran, so far as we can tell, but they wanted you to look at them anyway. They also found something else you'll probably find interesting." Clearly, Landry was drawing this out for dramatic effect, probably as a little petty payback against Daniel for the whole situation.

"...what?"

"A sword. They said it looks real, not like, and I quote, 'one of those cheap replicas you hang on your wall,'" the general remarked dryly.

"Huh." That wasn't exactly anything Daniel was expecting; then again, he wasn't sure what he was expecting, in the first place. A sword? He glanced at Dr. Lam, who threw up her hands helplessly.

"Hey, don't look at me. My specialty is in fixing wounds _caused_ by weapons, not the weapons themselves," she protested.

The archaeologist tiredly rubbed at his face. "Of course, this kinda begs the question as to _why_ Pierson is carrying around a sword..."


	11. The More Things Change

Methos opened his eyes in the interrogation room, studying his reflection in the mirrored glass. He might not have _aged _in five thousand years, but he had certainly _changed _a great deal from the man he was then.

From a scared child, to Death on a Pale Horse, to a dusty scholar and occasional do-gooder, Methos had endured quite an ongoing and often painful metamorphosis throughout his long life.

Daniel Jackson, however, was a different story entirely

It didn't seem possible, but here, thousands of years later, was the very same Daniel, alive and so very mortal. Same face, same stance, same smile and presence and countless tiny little things that made him _Daniel_. Not even Immortals remained unchanged over such a breadth of time.

Except now, instead of calm certainty, those lively blue eyes were filled with confusion and curiosity. It was painfully obvious that Daniel didn't know or remember Methos _at all._

What was it he had said to him that day in the tent?

"_If I told you I was born in the future, what would you say?"_

Could it be...? Was it possible...? Methos closed his eyes again, a faint smile touching his lips; even after all this time, the universe was still finding ways to surprise him. Unbelievable and implausible as it appeared, Daniel Jackson might not have been as much of a madman as Methos had assumed at the time.

Maybe, just maybe, could he have been telling the truth?

Not impossible after all, just a bit unlikely, it seemed.

~o0o~

Landry's formidable eyebrows arched on his forehead. "I think all of us are wondering that, Dr. Jackson. They're bringing some of Pierson's belongings back here for analysis. I'm sure _someone _around here will be able to tell us why Mr. Pierson is carrying a genuine sword around with him," the general remarked dryly.

"It's not like someone's likely to show up and challenge him to a duel, after all." Carolyn rolled her eyes - but suddenly Daniel wasn't so sure.

He thought of Merlin - Moros - and the Knights of the Round Table, Cameron Mitchell wielding the sword from the stone in battle with a holographic knight, Camelot, Ganos Lal/Morgan LeFey, and suddenly, the sword didn't seem so out of place after all.

In fact, it made a bizarre sort of sense, if Adam Pierson were some sort of descended Ancient. Swords and sorcery, as it were, definitely had a place in what they knew about the Ancients.

Maybe it just felt _right _for him to be carrying it, without him realizing why; like being a historian was _right_. An unconscious affinity for the past, his own past.

Daniel knew, all too well, what that felt like. When he was returned to human form, those years ago, he was left without any past, not even the memory of his own name. The people who found him called him _Arrom_, the Naked One. For months, he tried to grasp those fleeting figments of memory that seemed just out of reach, only to have them slip away. Then Jack and the others had arrived, and begged him to come back with them to Earth. It hadn't been any of their arguments, as such, that had convinced him. It was something far less tangible; not a certainty, more a desperate hope, that Earth was where he belonged.

He looked down through the window at Pierson; the other man no longer seemed to be asleep or meditating, but was gazing up. And it seemed that, just for a moment, they actually locked eyes through the mirrored glass.


	12. Under Normal Circumstances

Time travel!

It hadn't even occurred to him at the time. Couldn't have, really. Not even the so-called gods had possessed the power to turn back time. And Dan-yer, Daniel Jackson, strange and exotic though he was, was just a man.

And yet.

Methos had watched technology evolve over five thousand years; for millennia, the height of Western military technology were the bow and catapult, for instance. (The East, though, had been far ahead of them in _that_ particular area of expertise - alchemists had discovered black powder by the ninth century.) That all changed, particularly over the last couple centuries.

Technology had come a very, very long way in a very short time, historically speaking.

Harnessing the power of electricity sparked a veritable explosion of technological advancement in the twentieth century, and things didn't show any sign of slowing down in the twenty first.

Of course, under normal circumstances, Methos _still_ wouldn't have accepted time travel as a rational explanation. Of course, these weren't exactly normal circumstances.

Daniel Jackson had the backing of some shadowy part of the American government, quite obviously a branch of the military. Such people worked on projects that were so far ahead of the everyday and so far out of the ordinary that, despite any curiosity Methos might have, he avoided them like a duel. (Actually, more so.)

Could these people _actually possess_ some form of time travel? The thought was growing frightening more plausible the longer he considered it. Though, if they _did_, hypothetically speaking, it apparently hadn't worked out so well for the Daniel he met in Ancient Egypt, who was clearly trapped there. (Or, for that matter, for his friends, who'd been executed by Ra.)

Methos gazed incredulously at himself in the mirror - was he really having an internal debate with himself about the possibility of _time travel_?

* * *

><p>"Alright, putting aside the question of why he's wandering around with a sword, if Adam Pierson <em>is<em> some sort of descended Ancient, what is he doing here, anyway? Why return to mortal form, especially after all that time?" Landry said, asking the obvious question.

"Who knows? There could be any number of reasons," Daniel replied, utterly fascinated by the whole situation despite his tiredness. Orlin had retaken human form for Sam - twice. "We know that not everyone followed the ascended party line-"

"Like _you_," Carolyn interjected helpfully.

"Yes, thanks for reminding me." Everything had started so well, after his death and ascension. Right up until the point where he realized that the Ancients would sit back and watch the galaxy burn before doing the smallest part to help those on the material plane. Apparently, enlightenment wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

There were reasons for their little Prime Directive, of course, very good reasons. But there were _rules_, and then there were _rules taken to an irrational and idiotic extreme_. The Ancients tended towards the latter, every time. At some level, they were so frightened that anything they did would have a truly terrible outcome, that they did nothing at all.

When, quite literally, the fate of the galaxy was at stake, Daniel realized how utterly infuriating the Ancients' 'do nothing' policy was. Maybe they had been disconnected from the physical plane of existence for so long that most of them had forgotten such simple things as compassion.

"But, yeah," Daniel agreed noncommittally, a slight twitch of his shoulders all he revealed about his inner thoughts on the subject, "He could've been one of Oma's followers-"

"Or Anubis's," the general pessimistically countered, seeing the other side of the coin. Cheery thought, that. Daniel had no desire to meet anyone connected with the spooky half-ascended Goa'uld megalomaniac. At least, for the foreseeable future, Anubis himself was occupied... elsewhere.

"Or Merlin's! Given that he probably doesn't remember Oma or Anubis or Merlin or any of the others, it's probably irrelevant from a practical point of view. It's not like you can ask him about it." Dr. Lam pointed out dryly, crossing her arms. "I'm going back to the lab and to see how those tests are coming along."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

During Daniel's brief time ascended (i.e., season 6 of _SG-1_), he grew increasingly frustrated with the Ancients' policy of non-interference. This came to a head when Anubis, a half-ascended Goa'uld, threatened Daniel's adoptive home on Abydos. Daniel attempted to stop Anubis, but was prevented by the Ancients; Anubis then obliterated Abydos ("Full Circle"). After this, Daniel was either exiled to, or willingly retook, human form ("Fallen").

More than a thousand years prior to the events of the _Stargate_ series, the ascended Ancient Moros was concerned about the impending threat of his people's old enemy, the Ori, who were also a race of ascended beings. In order to secretly search for a weapon against the Ori (a weapon which could also be turned against the Ancients), Moros retook physical form but managed to retain near-ascended abilities that appeared as magic to the primitive humans, who knew him as Myrddin, or Merlin ("Arthur's Mantle").


	13. Killing Time

Turning his thoughts away from the headache-inducing possibilities of time travel, Methos glanced around the bare gray room in which he now sat. Idly, he wondered how long he'd been held in there.

He wasn't sure when the little commando squad had kidnapped him out of his motel room, but it definitely had been at least several hours since he had woken up from the effects of whatever that stun weapon had been.

He had no way of knowing how long he'd been unconscious, but the gambling part of him would wager it wasn't more than a few hours, and probably significantly less. It might not even be daylight outside yet.

Where was 'outside,' anyway? There was a heaviness to the air, something almost undefinable, that told him that this room was probably underground. And not in someone's basement, but much deeper. Possibly hundreds of feet. Given that the room was certainly part of a larger facility, he was, despite himself, impressed with the amount of money that had to have been dedicated to its construction and maintenance.

Whatever it was they were doing here must be worth it.

Methos gazed up at the mirrored window, his eyes slightly narrowed in thought; who was back there with Daniel Jackson, and what were they discussing? And why were they taking so bloody long about it?

If he had any sort of luck in this life (not that he put much trust in luck), it was a sign that they (finally) figured out he wasn't this Tanith bloke (_whoever_ he was), and they were going to let him go.

Methos had absolutely no desire to remain in the hands of any arm of the government, let alone those of a top-secret military outfit which apparently had the means and willingness to kidnap people out of Colorado motel rooms. He was intelligent enough to know how that scenario would end, and it simply _wouldn't_ be good for him.

Nor for any other Immortals out there.

~o0o~

Daniel sighed heavily as Dr. Lam left the observation room. "We can't keep him locked up," he said. "I mean, it'd be one thing if he were actually a Goa'uld, but..."

"I know that, Dr. Jackson," General Landry replied, a hint of annoyance in his voice. "Ancient genetics aside, everything we have so far - apart from his uncanny resemblance to Tanith - seems to indicate he is who he claims to be. And being... whatever he is... isn't reason enough to hold him."

"Well, he might agree to cooperate if we ask him," Daniel suggested facetiously.

"And Colonel Reynolds could always invite me to the Marine Corps Ball as his date," Landry quipped. "They're both just as likely to happen."

A wry chuckle escaped Daniel's lips. "Yeah..." he agreed, "You're probably right. I'm just thinking he'll probably take the opportunity to disappear as soon as we let him go."

"That's almost definitely what he's going to do. We didn't exactly give off a sterling first impression," the general observed.

"Now _that's_ an understatement." Adam Pierson, whatever unusual origins he might have, was not a guinea pig, nor the property of the United States Air Force. How many times throughout the years had Daniel argued about holding people against their will?

It had seemed justified just a few hours ago, when he was terrified that a murderous Goa'uld was at large in Colorado Springs. But, now that they knew otherwise, Daniel felt almost like he was looking in the mirror and seeing the reflection of Harry Maybourne as they had first known him. It was not a pleasant realization.

"So, time to cut him loose?"

"I'd say so."


	14. Apologies and Regrets

Just as Methos was pondering whether to actually take a nap while he waited for his captors to make up their minds, the heavy door slid open to readmit Daniel Jackson. "So," Methos drawled impudently as he leaned back as far as his chair would tilt without falling over, "what's the word from on high?"

The other man actually looked genuinely apologetic. That, at least, was a positive sign. "Well, we came to the conclusion that you aren't who we thought you were."

"I could've told you that. Oh, wait! I did tell you that!" Methos countered sarcastically.

A strange expression crossed Daniel's face for a moment, like he had been expecting an orange and bit into a lemon instead. "Yes, we're really, really sorry about the misunderstanding, Mr. Pierson. The man we mistook you for-"

"You mean this fellow 'Tanith,'" Methos interjected helpfully.

Daniel didn't quite succeed in suppressing the wince that followed, but it was a valiant effort nonetheless. "Yeah. The resemblance is..." He chuckled uncomfortably. "well, really very uncanny. He was a, ah... a very evil person. And I'm not just saying that."

Aha, so he didn't just happen to recognize Tanith. Oh, no; there was definitely something _deeply_ personal about this, or Methos was the world's worst judge of people. Clear obvious understatement, the way his jaw flexed involuntarily like that, the tightness to his smile, that particular flickering look in his eyes.

However, under the circumstances Methos was not feeling all that inclined to being charitable to to the man who kidnapped him. "Well, then I guess it's a good thing you didn't just shoot me out of hand, then. Perhaps I should wear a sign that says 'I am not Tanith!' wherever I go from now on."

"Again, I'm very sorry about what happened," Daniel apologized again, his contrition apparently genuine at least so far as Methos was able to read in his voice and body language. Which was admittedly pretty far, unless Daniel was a much, much more devious and subtle man than he appeared.

"It's quite all right," remarked Methos, arching an eyebrow at the other man. "I don't mind being snatched out of my bed in the middle of the night by secret government agencies. All things considered, in fact, I'd say it's been a fun and informative experience!"

~o0o~

The sarcasm meter was off the charts.

Once again, minus the English accent, Pierson had managed to sound exactly like Jack O'Neill. Again. The comparison was like the universe was smacking Daniel on the head with a sledgehammer. Part of him wanted to shake his fist at the sky and shout _Alright already, I get the idea!_

"It's really unfortunate that we got off on the wrong foot, Mr. Pierson," he said instead, hoping maybe to salvage at least a small part of the situation.

"Oh, no, please, call me Adam, I insist," Tanith's doppelganger said, though Daniel's ears still detected more than a hint of mockery in his tone. It wasn't as if it wasn't well-deserved, at least. Though most people would probably be simply grateful to escape and be done with it. "You might as well. After all, you already know all there is to know about me, I'm sure."

"No, actually, there I'm pretty sure you're wrong," Daniel replied with a slight, wistful smile. "I'd say there's quite a lot we don't know about you."

"And here I know practically nothing about you, aside from your name and that you work for a part of the American government that has no problem snatching people out of bed in the middle of the night, of course," Pierson shrugged, still displaying a front of supreme unconcern about his situation, deflecting his discomfort with sarcasm. "So, are you going to let me go, then? Or are you just apologizing for the sake of your own peace of mind?"


	15. The Historian and the Archaeologist

The sarcasm, at this point, was purely gratuitous on Methos's part - whatever decision had been made would hardly be affected by his rapier wit. He doubted that it had been up to Daniel Jackson, anyway; no doubt some high-ranking military officer lurking behind that mirrored glass had the final say in Methos's fate.

He had no serious expectation of being released so easily. On the other hand, he really, truly hoped that he wasn't going to have to die to get out of this dungeon, but he was nothing if not a pragmatist. He'd do what he had to to protect himself and the secret of Immortals.

Daniel's lips thinned and his eyes narrowed a bit, as if he were debating something with himself. Whatever the content of that internal argument, it seemed that one side eventually won out, because his shoulders slumped ever so slightly.

"You're free to go," he said finally. "And I really am sorry about all the trouble you've been put through."

Methos stared at Daniel in surprise for a couple seconds. "I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth - unless it actually is a gift horse. Honestly, the things some sheiks think they can get away with..."

Daniel burst out laughing, his brilliant blue eyes twinkling in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the room. "And always be very careful when they start offering the ceremonial cake!" he added in amusement.

"You accidentally marry the chieftain's daughter, did you?"

"Oh, no. Well, not _that_ time, at any rate," Daniel replied wryly. It seemed that he'd had a few adventures in this time, too, to judge by the expression of reminiscence on his face. "It took awhile to work out the cultural miscommunication, though. My friend said it felt more like _decades_. Don't really blame him."

Methos quirked an eyebrow. "Was she really all that hideous?"

Daniel's eyes widened slightly, obviously slightly startled by the joke. "Oh, no, no, no, she was..." His lips twitched in a ghost of remembered amusement. "She was, ah, quite beautiful. Let's just say the timing was just... very, very bad."

"Who would have thought?" Methos replied, and they both shared a chuckle. "Really, what's a nice man like you doing working for the military, anyway?" he asked rhetorically, so overcome with relief he even managed to abandon sarcasm for a time.

~o0o~

God help him, but Daniel actually liked Adam Pierson. It wasn't just just the masochistic part of him that still missed Jack's sarcastic remarks and acerbic teasing, but also the scholar who could share a joke about gift horses and shifty sheiks. "Oh, you'd be surprised," Daniel smiled again, briefly - though he really wondered if Pierson _would_, in fact be surprised.

"That might be true, but, really, I have no desire to poke my nose in where it doesn't belong," Adam shrugged as he stood up languidly, stretching every limb with a deep groan. "I'm an historian, not a would-be history maker, though I'm of the firm opinion that history makes men, not the other way around."

"And I'm an archaeologist. Go figure," Daniel said wryly. For a moment, he saw a strange flicker in Pierson's eyes, but it vanished before he could read anything into it.

The iso room's heavy door slid open, and a man Daniel recognized as one of the Stargate Command's SFs entered, though he was currently wearing civilian clothes. Privately, Daniel didn't think it did much to disguise the fact that he was military, but in a military city like Colorado Springs, no one would think anything of it, anyway. Granted, Corporal Estevez was less conspicuous than _some _of the SFs on base, being more wiry than muscle-bound. And he looked pretty young, too, though maybe that observation revealed more about Daniel than Estevez.

"I'm here to escort Mr. Pierson back to his motel," Estevez reported succinctly, his face blank of any expression - though Daniel could swear he saw a glint of humor in the man's eye.

"Well, it's about time," Pierson declared, though he definitely seemed to be in a better mood now than even five minutes before.

Maybe there was hope for them yet.


	16. Interlude: A Twist in Time

**Interlude: A Twist in Time**

_Five thousand years ago, and thousands of miles away..._

Methos stood at the entrance to the tent and studied the mysterious blue eyed man called Dan-yer. Even seated, it was obvious he was a tall man, strongly built, with few scars or blemishes to be seen. His brown hair was a lighter shade than most, and his skin, despite the tan left by the harsh desert sun, paler.

Though Dan-yer claimed to be as human as the rest of them, walked and dressed like them, Methos knew there was something different about him, something... otherworldly. And it wasn't just his color of his eyes, exotic though they were.

No, it was _what those eyes had seen_ that intrigued and perplexed Methos.

Suddenly, Dan-yer smiled, opening those eyes and gazing up at him, as if challenging Methos to look deeper, to drown in those bright blue orbs. "Hello," he greeted him amiably. "Won't you come in?"

"Why are you here?" Methos asked in puzzlement, all his questions rolled into that single query. Nevertheless, he did enter the rest of the way and sit down on the mat opposite him.

"Why am I here?" Dan-yer shrugged carelessly, such an easy gesture, yet so out of place here, where everyone lived in constant fear. "Why are any of us here?" he replied.

"Spoken like a true philosopher!" Methos objected - he could hardly miss that the other man hadn't answered the question at all.

Surprisingly, Dan-yer didn't seem at all upset by Methos's annoyance. "I'm afraid the real answer to your question is far more complicated than you think it is," he replied, smiling sympathetically. "To put it a bit more simply, I'm here to safeguard the future. If we haven't messed it up too badly." The last part he added almost facetiously, in a near-mutter.

Methos frowned in irritation at the man's lack of clarity. "Where are you from, then?"

"Oh, someplace far, far away from here." He chuckled softly at some private joke. "Really far. But the place isn't as important as the _time_," Dan-yer replied contemplatively; he seemed almost sad, closing his eyes for a moment.

"Time?" Methos was puzzled. What did time have to do with where a man was from?

Dan-yer shifted his weight, sitting cross-legged across from Methos. "You know, most people ask me how I'm so sure that Ra will be defeated," he stated inexplicably, apparently changing topics completely.

Methos cocked his head slightly. "I heard you tell the others that in some ways it has already happened. You do realize that statement makes absolutely no sense whatsoever."

"I know; it's complicated, but yes, it's true," the blue eyed man said with a sympathetic smile. "it's already happened, a long, long time ago. Where I came from, I was an _archaeologist_," he said, using a strange, foreign term Methos did not understand. "I studied the past, learned how people lived and died long ago." Dan-yer paused, as if considering what to say next. "If I told you I was born in the future, what would you say?" he asked finally.

"I would say that you were lying, crazy, or touched by the gods," Methos shrugged, in an unconscious echo of Dan-yer's earlier gesture.

"Exactly," he replied simply, as if Methos had just answered his own question.

Methos stared calculatingly at the man sitting across from him. Dan-yer seemed to be in earnest, and his open face was one of the most easily readable Methos had ever seen. But his explanation defied all rational logic and reason. "You are claiming to have stepped from the future into the past? A future that has not even happened?" he demanded.

~o0o~

"It's a bit more complicated than that." Daniel had no idea how to answer this man's question in a way he could comprehend, especially since he didn't fully understand how it worked, himself.

_Sam would've been able to break this down far better than I could. I was never really great with physics_, he thought with a touch of melancholy wryness. He missed her so much; he missed them all, even Jack's sarcastic complaints about the primitive living conditions in Ancient Egypt.

Living here wasn't so bad for Daniel. It was almost exactly like his time on Abydos, aside from the constant dodging of Jaffa patrols. But losing Jack, Sam, and Teal'c... that had almost been too much for him.

Sometimes, the grief still threatened to overwhelm him. But he took some small consolation from the knowledge that one day, five thousand years from now, they would all be together again.

Hopefully.

Provided, of course, they could pull off this rebellion and drive Ra from Earth. Despite all the confidence he showed before people like this man, he often wondered if they would be able to succeed in their mission _(Of course it was a mission, just like any of the other countless missions they did together.)_ Time could be changed, after all - though, in this case, that was exactly what they were trying to avoid.

"So," the other man replied, obviously confused and incredulous. "When you lived in the future, you learned about what had already happened here, then somehow magically traveled to a time _before _it happened?" he scoffed.

"Yeah, most people have the same reaction you do. Time isn't what you think it is," Daniel grimaced helplessly. "And I don't understand how it works, myself, to be perfectly honest. But, despite what you may think, I'm not lying and I'm not crazy. And I'm definitely _not _touched by the gods. Ra is nothing more than a _parasite _wearing a human body."

A deep revulsion rose within him, and a profound sadness for the poor boy they were never able to save, for all of them, the hosts. _Sha're..._

The other man blinked, narrowing his dark eyes slightly. "Why do you hate him so much? What curse did he inflict on you?" he asked shrewdly.

"It's not just him. It's _all of them_. They've caused so much pain and suffering, and they'll continue to do so for thousands of years. This rebellion, driving Ra and the rest of them out, it's just the first step towards ending their rule," Daniel replied, his deep anger mixing with determination. "One day, five thousand years from now, the Goa'uld will be challenged. And, being the arrogant bastards they are, they'll dismiss the threat. Only it'll come back and bite them in the ass."

Sometimes, he dreamed about that moment, when he and Jack looked at each other over a nuclear bomb and spoke simultaneously: "_I've got an idea!" _ Daniel smiled grimly at the memory; they had no idea what they'd started with that one bomb blowing up in Ra's face.

"Look, I don't expect everyone to believe me about where I come from," Daniel said after a moment. "All you do have to believe is that Ra _can_ be defeated, that he _can_ be driven away. _Hope _is one of the most precious things a man can possess. And against the Goa'uld, it's an unbelievably potent weapon, too."


	17. Things a Sword Can Tell

An archaeologist. Methos managed not to laugh at that realization. It made perfect sense, in a twisted, perverse sort of way. No wonder Daniel seemed to know so much, and how he had fit in so easily in Ancient Egypt. He'd studied it before he'd lived it.

However, foremost in Methos's mind was his continued freedom and livelihood, which often depended greatly, as he had just told Daniel, on not nosing around in places he really shouldn't be looking. Long story short, he was more than happy to just leave and never run into Daniel Jackson ever again.

The young plain-clothed military fellow escorted him out of the interrogation room into a long, empty corridor. There didn't seem to be too many people around, though Methos spotted some people in attire similar to Daniel's passing down a ways.

Methos was privately pleased when the elevator ride confirmed that his supposition that he had been held underground. More than twenty floor underground, in fact. And the elevator didn't lead to the surface, either - they eventually emerged into a large underground parking garage.

Their ride turned out to be a dark colored sedan, unmarked but with tinted windows.

"I don't suppose I'm allowed to ride in the front," Methos noted dryly.

"That'd be a definite 'no,' sir," his escort replied with a completely straight face.

Taking advantage of the situation, Methos decided that he might as well catch up on his sleep during the drive back to the motel. It seemed very unlikely that anything bad was going to happen at this point, and he was still very tired.

The car door opening woke him in a second. His escort handed him a plastic bag, which proved to contain his wallet, keys, phone, and passport.

He waited for the car to leave before trudging inside.

Naturally, Daniel's military friends had tossed both his room and his car and left everything a mess. _Apparently, they don't believe in tidying up a place after ransacking it_, Methos mused. Much to Methos's annoyance, they'd taken his laptop, a couple of his less recent journals and some other historical interesting documents he'd picked up in Colorado Springs. Maybe they'd bring in Daniel Jackson to translate them.

Good luck with that.

Even when Daniel managed to figure them out (which Methos definitely wouldn't put past him), it wouldn't tell him, or the American military, anything useful. Luckily, neither of the journals he'd recovered had contained some of the more juicy stories about himself - he'd been feeling whimsical at the time, and enjoying some really good beer at a German monastery, when he wrote them.

The laptop itself wasn't a huge loss, as he always backed up everything remotely, and never kept anything particularly incriminating on it. And his infrequent emails, even to such people as MacLeod, were always carefully innocent.

What really, truly irked him was that they'd taken his Ivanhoe. He let out a few of the more colorful invectives he'd learned over the past five thousand years - an Immortal without a sword was _asking_ to lose his head. And though Methos had created an art out of avoiding duels, he never went anywhere without his sword close at hand.

And he _liked_ that sword, too.

Most people didn't appreciate the effort to find the right sword to suit a person's hand, but it was an essential aspect of being an Immortal. The right sword could be the difference between taking a head or losing your own. And after more than five thousand years on this Earth, Methos knew this better than anyone.

Swallowing his frustration, he set about cleaning up the mess left behind by the search party. As he did so, he carefully checked for listening devices. While he didn't immediately find anything, that hardly meant they weren't eavesdropping, and he was certain that it was better to be safe than sorry.

The room and car were both rented, and he could get a new phone easily enough. He didn't plan on staying here in Colorado Springs much longer.

But the loss of his Ivanhoe _definitely_ galled him.

~o0o~

Soon after Adam Pierson was escorted off the base, Daniel sat in his office examining several well-preserved documents dating back hundreds of years and two bound books of even older vintage, along with a remarkably beautiful sword that was almost as much art as weapon.

The documents appeared to be various passenger manifests from ships between Europe and the New World during the colonial era. While interesting and definitely valuable from a historical perspective, Daniel soon set them aside as relatively unimportant, and he could return to them at a more reasonable hour.

The books, on the other hand, were far more intriguing. Written in an extremely obtuse dialect of medieval Latin, they purported to be the biographical account of the life of a man called Methos, though this fellow's exploits seemed more than a little far fetched.

_Then again_, Daniel thought wryly, _I go to other planets for a living. 'Far fetched' has acquired a whole new meaning. _

Even the subject's name was something of a joke: 'Methos' came from the same root word as 'myth,' so it was quite possible that the stories were more likely created around a heroic archetype of some sort. Though the Methos character seemed to have a notable, recurring fondness for overindulging in alcohol and, oddly, avoiding combat in the most absurd manners possible...

Daniel chuckled a bit; he'd never heard of Methos before. Hardly surprising, given that Ancient Egypt, rather than medieval Europe, was his area of expertise. But he decided he should do a little research during his free time to find out if any other documents relating to this rather unusual individual.

Then it was time to examine the last unusual item collected from Adam Pierson's effects: his sword.

Though it would definitely dominate a true collector's wall space, this was no flimsy ornament meant for only for display. The bronze hilt was intricately decorated with heraldic lion, gryphon, and unicorn. A dark green emerald glittered brilliantly against the burnished, beautifully detailed pommel.

Moving his magnifier over the pommel, he saw several dark brown flecks caught in some of the delicate grooves. His breath quickened slightly - he knew the sight of dried blood as well as anyone else here at the SGC.

In contrast to the hilt, the blade seemed almost plain, featuring a simple fuller and none of the intricate designs or inscriptions often seen on decorative weapons. Gingerly examining the razor-sharp blade, Daniel saw sure signs of both use and care. Despite being a museum quality piece in antiquity and value, this sword had, for whatever reason, clearly been recently handled as a weapon.

Adam Pierson?

Was it possible that he had, in fact, used this sword on other people at some point? If so, then _why_? Possession of a sword was one thing; _use_ of it was something else entirely. First, though, he had to be sure. He might well be overreacting, or simply be reading too deeply into things. Fortunately, he happened to work in a military facility that housed some of the most advanced scientific laboratories on the planet.


	18. And In Dreams

Fortunately for Methos, the infernally messy searchers hadn't found _everything_. He still had his handgun and dagger hidden outside, and a cache of money also close at hand, all concealed when he first arrived in town. Cautiously, he left them in their hiding spots for now; he didn't immediately spot any active surveillance on him, but that didn't mean they weren't there, watching him. At this point, paranoia was definitely his friend.

Regardless, he had no intention of giving them, whoever they were, the satisfaction of learning anything of value about him. Hopefully, they would lose interest after a while. Until then, he would behave as normally and unobtrusively as possible. This was no impossible feat for him; he'd spent hundreds of years at a time avoiding the notice of others - it was practically an art.

On the other hand, it had grown much more difficult since he'd met Duncan MacLeod. Trouble always seemed to find the infuriatingly noble Boy Scout, even more so than his more pragmatic kinsman Connor. (Though that mess of Connor's in New York City a few decades back had been _completely_ avoidable, in Methos's opinion.) Of course, this time Duncan wasn't here to take the blame for the mess.

No, this was all Methos's own fault.

Finally, Methos managed to put his room to rights. At least he didn't have very much with him on this trip. After five thousand years, things had a tendency to accumulate, and he could be a terrible pack rat at times.

With a sigh, he knew there was nothing left to do but turn out the light and go back to bed and try to reclaim what few hours there were left to the night.

_It was a dream; Methos could always tell the dreams from reality or memory. Glancing around, he realized he was in a rough, shabby tent, much like many he dwelt in as a child. He was sitting on a woven mat on the sandy ground - and facing him was Daniel Jackson._

_"Never thought I'd see you again," Daniel remarked, smiling slightly. Incongruously, he wore the black military attire and boots from the future - or was it the present? - instead of the robes of a desert dweller. _

_"I could say the same thing about you," replied Methos as he slouched carelessly on the mat. "You know, I'd never have thought, not in a million years, that any of this was possible."_

_"Yeah... weird how life works out, isn't it? I mean, you're what, five thousand years old now? All that time, and it leads you right back to little old me." The blue eyed man chuckled, shaking his head in amusement._

_Methos rolled his eyes. He didn't exactly appreciate the humor in the situation. "Yeah, it's all one great big cosmic joke at my expense."_

_Daniel glanced upwards. "Well, someone up there is definitely laughing about this. I've had to deal with it enough in my life. It's easier to just accept it. I know I got used to it after the first fifteen times or so."_

_Methos would have replied, but suddenly his head felt strange. Blinking rapidly, he tried to place the oddly familiar sensation._

_"You probably want to wake up now," Daniel casually advised him._

_"What?"_

Methos surged back to consciousness, grasping for a sword that was no longer there. He heard a soft scraping at the door: someone was picking the lock.

The Buzz of a nearby Immortal flooded his mind. An Immortal who was, no doubt, armed. Unlike him.

~o0o~

"Well, I can tell you that it's definitely blood that you found on the hilt," said Dr. Lam in her brisk, business-like manner. "It could take anywhere from several hours to several days for us to get a DNA ID match for you, if it's in any of the the accessible databases, but I can tell you right now that these samples contain some of the same atypical genetic markers that we found in your boy Adam Pierson."

"Really." Daniel crossed his arms, slightly disbelieving that there would be more than one like Pierson running around out there, and, more to the point, that they had apparently crossed paths violently.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. And that's not the only weird thing going on. Check this out." Walking over to her computer, she pulled up an image on the screen. "I applied a substance called luminol to the blade, and this is what happened."

In the image, tell-tale blue stains fluoresced brilliantly on the blade's surface.

"Is that blood?" asked Daniel, eyes fixed on the glowing smears and spatters.

"Either that, or he's been chopping up a lot of horseradish," she replied dryly. At Daniel's confused expression, she elaborated. "Luminol reacts to the iron found in haemoglobin in blood, but it can also be triggered by some other things, including copper, bleach... and horseradish."

"Ah."

"Unfortunately, there's not enough left on the blade itself for DNA," Dr. Lam said in disappointment. "It seems Mr. Pierson takes good care of his weaponry. And if this thing's as old as you think it is, it's in remarkable shape, especially if it's being used to kill people. I mean, it's not just chipping and breaking you need to look out for in a sword, it's corrosion. And this one is absolutely pristine."

"Yeah..." Daniel replied absently, preoccupied with studying the image on the screen; the blue luminol glow was oddly fascinating, in a disturbing sort of way. There was a lot of blood on that blade.

"It's weird, though, isn't it? A guy actually using a sword as a weapon. I mean, why use a sword when you could use a gun? Even the Goa'uld were more practical, for the most part," she commented, her confusion evident.

"I don't know," he sighed. He was beginning to wonder exactly how much they didn't know about Adam Pierson. Was it a mistake to let him go the way they did? He rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. _Who is this guy?_

The phone rang abruptly, interrupting their tete-a-tete. Dr. Lam answered it, before handing it over to Daniel a moment later. "It's for you."

"This is Dr. Jackson," Daniel said into the phone.

_"Dr. Jackson, it's Corporal Estevez. You wanted to be notified if any unusual activity was spotted around Adam Pierson."_

Daniel blinked. He hadn't actually expected anything to happen, especially not so soon. "What's going on, Corporal?" he asked.

_"It looks like someone's trying to break into his room. What action do you want me to take, sir?" _


	19. Uninvited Guest

Even as Methos rolled out of the bed, the door lock snicked back. He saw the sheen of a blade in the orange light from the lamp outside. As soon as the dark figure slipped inside, Methos made his move: he threw the bed sheets over the intruder's head and used the opportunity to flip the person onto the floor, using the individual's own weight as leverage. It almost didn't work- the intruder clearly was no infant Immortal and had considerable training.

However, Methos had no intention of dying in his boxers in a motel room in Colorado Springs. He slammed his opponent to the floor and wrenched the sword away. "Stop moving if you want to live," he hissed quietly, all too aware of the listening devices Daniel's friends had planted.

The figure, swathed in his sheets, abruptly froze. "Methos?" came a muffled query in a familiar voice.

Methos had a sudden sinking feeling. "Amanda?" He stepped back and pulled the sheet off her face. It was indeed Amanda, infamous thief and magnet for trouble, as dangerous as she was beautiful. "What are you doing here? Wait, don't answer that," he interrupted her reply. "Let me get dressed and we can go out for coffee and you can tell me all about why you're breaking into my room at four in the bloody morning."

He didn't bother to help her up from her position on the floor. Of all the bad timing, this was the worst. Under surveillance by the government, and she just happened to show up at his door? The only thing that could make the situation worse would be if Duncan MacLeod his own self appeared. Though surely the universe wasn't _that_ cruel. Then again, he checked that thought. Things could _always_ get worse.

Setting the sword down on the bed, he pulled on a T-shirt, a comfortable, over-sized sweater, and a pair of jeans. As he dressed, Amanda retrieved her sword and concealed it under her coat. This was hardly the first time she'd caught him in his boxers, though hopefully it would definitely be the _last_.

As he opened the door, a police officer all but fell inside. "Good evening," the fellow said, covering up his surprise. "Everything alright here? We received a report of a possible break-in."

_Ah. So they were watching, after all._ "Everything's just fine, Officer. Just a misunderstanding here," he said. "My friend here has a terrible sense of humour and thought it would be terribly amusing to catch me in my knickers."

"Yeah," Amanda grinned brightly, leering slightly at the officer, "Unfortunately, he's a lighter sleeper than I thought." She suggestively stroked her hand down Methos's cheek.

The officer chuckled, getting entirely the wrong impression- exactly as intended. "I understand. I'm sorry for the interruption, sir. Have a good night!"

"Oh, I intend to, Officer," Methos replied, giving Amanda a pinch that was a good deal more forceful than it needed to be for the purposes of the charade.

~o0o~

"_The person who broke into his room was a woman called Amanda, no last name. From the sound of things, they definitely knew each other, but I don't think either of them was expecting the other to be there, sir,"_ Corporal Estevez said over the phone. "_They sent the cop packing in a hurry. Then they took Pierson's car and left a minute or two after the cop. I'm currently following them to see __where they go, but they aren't saying anything I can hear."_

"All right, Corporal. Thanks for the update," Daniel replied before hanging up. It was possible that Pierson had discovered the surveillance; the man definitely seemed clever- and suspicious- enough to have done so. Daniel had been against the bugging of the room and car, but General Landry had insisted on it, given that Pierson might yet be a threat, Goa'uld or not.

"You know, this would go a lot more quickly if we had the Asgard core available," Dr. Lam muttered, staring at her screen as if she could force the process to go faster through sheer force of will. DNA testing always took longer than they showed on TV.

"Yeah, too bad _Odyssey _isn't here," Daniel replied absently. No, that would make life easy. And, to add to the mess, there was now a new person in the picture. _Amanda_. Who was she, and why was she breaking into Adam Pierson's motel room? Was her presence a coincidence?

After all his years at Stargate Command, Daniel didn't trust coincidence. Not in the slightest.

"Daniel," Dr. Lam smiled sympathetically, "there's not much more you can do right now. Why don't you get some sleep?"

Daniel rubbed an eye wearily. He was exhausted, and, truth be told, he wasn't as good at pulling all-nighters like he was fifteen years ago. It was already an hour or two before dawn, and his body was protesting. "Yeah, you're probably right," he agreed with a sigh.

A couple hours' sleep would do him good.

_He sat cross-legged in a tent; it could have been on Abydos, but something told him otherwise. Glancing out the front flap, he saw Goa'uld motherships perched atop pyramids in the distance. _

"_You were right," a familiar voice told him. He looked back and saw Skaara sitting next to him, smiling brilliantly._

"_Really? About what?" Daniel asked, strangely not at all curious as to why his dead brother-in-law was holding a conversation with him._

"_Abydos was very much like your own world. I still remember the stories you told us of the great rebellion that drove Ra from Egypt long ago," Skaara explained. _

"_I see," replied Daniel. "So, why are we here?" _

_Skaara shrugged. "It is in your thoughts. You brought yourself here. I am just enjoying the view, as O'Neill would say."_

"_He misses you, by the way," Daniel smiled, eyes shifting back to the pyramids. The Great Pyramids. Something occurred to him. "How could I have brought us here? I was never _here_."_


	20. A Time Long Past

As they sipped hot coffee in an all-night diner, Amanda made a face. "Okay, can you tell me _now_ what's going on?" she asked impatiently. "You're acting even _more_ paranoid than usual."

Methos sighed. He figured that his shadow, who had so kindly called the police to report a break in, had probably followed them here and was now lurking somewhere in the car park. If he were daring, he might come into the diner, too, though no one had followed them in so far. "Why don't you tell me what you're doing in Colorado Springs, Amanda? This isn't exactly one of your usual haunts, is it?"

A look of disgust crossed her fairly attractive features. "I'm hunting down a guy. I've been tracking him all the way from Seattle. I thought I'd finally caught up to him. Instead I found you. I mean, what are the odds? Why are you in Colorado Springs, anyway? It's not exactly Paris, Methos," she said chidingly.

He winced, hoping Daniel's friends weren't using parabolic microphones to eavesdrop on them in here. He doubted they were, but there was always a chance. "I was taking a lovely tour of the country, actually. I picked up a few items for my collection, too. And then I had a most enlightening evening with an old acquaintance of mine, a fellow by the name of Daniel Jackson."

"Daniel Jackson." Her eyes narrowed in thought. "The name's not ringing any bells. Is he one of us?"

"No. But he mistook me for someone else entirely, and I ended up in the dungeon of some military facility or other for a fair portion of the night. And after I finally convinced them I _wasn't_ this bloke Tanith, they let me go, but not before they ransacked my room and car, took my journals and my sword, and left behind a whole load of listening devices." He shot her a glare of annoyance. "I was trying to lay low when you just _had_ to break into my room."

"Well, that explains the paranoia. So who is this Daniel Jackson guy, anyway?" she asked curiously, not exactly completely repentant.

"An archaeologist, actually, apparently working for some military black project. What they'd want with an archaeologist in the first place, I have no idea, but there's something else." He smiled slightly. "I remember him. From Egypt."

"Egypt," Amanda said flatly. Then she saw his expression. "Wait, _Egypt_? I'm guessing you don't mean recently. Wait, if he's not one of us, how is that even _possible_?"

Methos snorted, throwing up his hands in disbelief. "Don't ask me! But it's definitely the same man."

"How can you be so sure?"

"When I first met him, he called himself an 'archaeologist.' He used that exact word, in English. It was so long ago, I couldn't remember him clearly at first," he said.

Amanda pursed her lips pensively. She knew as well as anyone how long an Immortal's memory was; Methos had chosen his words carefully- that was a measure of exactly how long ago it was. "I'm guessing you didn't bring this up with him," she said finally.

"You _are_ kidding," he retorted.

~o0o~

_Skaara grinned at him, exactly the way Daniel always remembered it. "You may have never set foot in Egypt during the time of our ancestors, but a dream takes the mind where needs to go."_

_Staring past Skaara out the open tent flap, Daniel noticed other tents clustered near the one they shared. Robed figures shuffled fearfully between the rough shelters. _

_"They fear the Jaffa of Ra," Skaara observed, turning to see what Daniel was looking at. "They knew no other life but slavery, as I did before you and O'Neill came and freed us."_

_"But they rebelled and drove Ra and the Goa'uld away," Daniel replied. "You know the story as well as I do by now."_

_"They had help." Skaara held up a camcorder that had suddenly appeared in his hands. "You remember now?"_

_He did. Eerie as it was to contemplate, some version of himself and the rest of SG-1 had gone back in time and was forced to remain in the past. _

_"That was one hell of a paradox," he remarked. He'd never understand that sort of thing the way Sam did. "I wonder what happened to them. The alternate us, I mean."_

_Skaara shrugged. "They lived, and they died, and they lived, and they died. Time is sometimes like a snake that is twisted against itself, biting its own tail. But that is not what is bothering you, Daniel."_

_"No, no it isn't." He mused for a moment. "It's someone I met recently. A guy named Adam. When I first saw him, I thought he was the Goa'uld Tanith."_

_"But you know Tanith to be dead," Skaara continued for him. "So what about this 'Adam' makes you uneasy?"_

_"Well, for one thing, when we first met he called me 'Dan-yer,' the same way you always pronounced my name. And he speaks Ancient Egyptian better than I do. This isn't a matter of jealousy," he added quickly, reading Skaara's teasing expression. "It's that there aren't exactly a lot of people in the world who speak that language, and I know them all. I've never heard of Adam Pierson. It just doesn't make sense."_

_"You wish clarity, understanding. It is no surprise that you are here, then," Skaara replied, as if he were pointing out the obvious. "This place is the deepest well of your knowledge."_

_As Skaara spoke, something drew Daniel's eyes towards a figure slipping from shadow to shadow, almost vanishing into the background and doing his best not to be noticed._

_"Who is that?" Daniel asked softly, his eyes not leaving the furtive figure. Frowning slightly, he stood and went to the entrance of the tent to get a closer look at the person, who was dressed in the same desert robes as the others. So what was it about this man that had caught Daniel's attention in the first place, when it was obvious that he was doing everything he could to not be seen?_

_Suddenly, the slender man turned towards him, giving Daniel a clear view of familiar, piercing dark eyes and a distinctive, almost regal nose framed by shaggy brown hair._

_It was Adam Pierson._


	21. That Which Belongs

"So, what are you going to do now?" Amanda asked, swirling her coffee around in her cup.

Methos shrugged noncommittally. "Well, I _had_ been planning to wait a day or two before getting the hell out of town and as far out of sight of the American military as possible. Your timing, as always, is atrocious, Amanda."

There were few people in the world who could cause as much trouble for him as Amanda could- the most notable of these people being, of course, that Boy Scout Duncan MacLeod.

"So, who is it that you are hunting that caused you to darken my doorstep again?" he asked.

Her expression visibly darkened, and she set aside her coffee altogether. "You remember that creep Larca who made baby Immortals think he was God and sent them out hunting in groups?"

A wave of disgust rippled through Methos. MacLeod had told him all about Larca, a lunatic Methos never had the misfortune to meet. The former Portuguese Conquistador had been well and truly insane; no doubt _he_ thought he God, too, by the end. He violated almost every rule of the Game before Duncan finally put him down like the mad dog he was.

"Someone else out there playing God?" he frowned.

"Oh, yeah. He had this whole little 'congregation' around him, actually _worshiping_ him. Close to a hundred people doing his bidding: men and women, plus some of their kids. He even had these 'high priests' who were basically nothing but enforcers."

"So, what happened?" asked Methos. There had to have been _something_ to have drawn Amanda's attention. She wasn't your typical head-hunting Immortal. "And why do you think he's an Immortal?" he added. It was a valid question; it wasn't as if cult personalities were forbidden to mortals, after all.

"I was just passing through town when I heard people talking, so I decided to check it out. I was doing surveillance when one of the locals shot him with a rifle. Apparently, he thought if he killed the man, his daughter would come home. Well, I saw the wound - it _would_ have killed an ordinary human being, but he comes out later like nothing ever happened. And it wasn't as if he were young, either. He looks like he's in his sixties, at least. The locals decided to call in the Feds. The next day, _everyone's dead_, down to the children. Just laying where they fell. And the bastard and his 'high priests' were nowhere to be found."

Methos closed his eyes for a moment. Such barbarism was hardly revolutionary for an Immortal. He had dealt out death at his own hand too many times to count. Innocent blood covered his hands. But he had changed greatly over his long life: whoever this man was, Amanda was right to hunt him. "So you tracked him here?"

"Yeah, though I have no idea why he's in Colorado Springs. And I don't intend to ask him before I take his head," she replied hotly. "I thought I had caught up with him at the motel, but I found you instead."

"And here we are, enjoying a lovely cup of coffee. Nothing unusual going on at all."

~o0o~

_"Why would my mind be putting Adam Pierson in Ancient Egypt?" Daniel wondered aloud as he watched the man in question shift surreptitiously around the camp._

_Skaara came to stand beside him at the tent opening, as light smile on his face. "Perhaps your dreaming thoughts are trying to provide answers that your waking mind cannot fathom," he suggested._

_Strangely, Pierson didn't actually seem out of place at all. He was a part of the tableau; he belonged here. In Ancient Egypt. Five thousand years ago. Something seemed to click into place in Daniel's thoughts. "He really did live here," Daniel mused, his lips lifting in wonder. "He knows the language... because he lived it."_

_"Is that so hard to believe, Daniel?" asked Skaara. "After all the wonders you have seen?"_

_Could it be possible for a descended Ancient to live for five thousand years? Or had he ascended later, only to return to human form in more recent times? Or had he been in some sort of suspended animation? Daniel's mind swirled with new thoughts, more questions. The possibilities were endless. Abruptly, he turned to face Skaara. _

_"Are you really here? Or is this just a dream?" he asked the young man at his shoulder._

_Skaara grinned, his eyes sparkling in the light reflected from the harsh desert sands. "You know better than most, that one does not preclude the other, Daniel."_

"Wha-?" Daniel's eyes snapped open. For a moment, he couldn't figure out where he was- the room was pitch black after the hot Egyptian sun. Then he remembered; he was in one of the spare quarters at the SGC. Groaning, he rolled over and flicked on the lamp. Squinting at his watch, he realized only a few hours had passed, but he felt more rested than he would have been on a full night's sleep.

Throwing on his pants and boots, he went to the locker rooms for a shower and a change of clothes, followed by a trip to the mess hall for breakfast. The morning rush was well under way by the time he got there, but he managed to find an unoccupied table where he could mull over his admittedly rather disconcerting dream. In the cold fluorescent light of the waking world, the content of the dream seemed ludicrous at face value.

Jack O'Neill would think he was nuts. Of course, Jack _always_ thought Daniel was nuts. One of the reasons he liked Jack so much was that he kept Daniel grounded. But was his dream-Skaara so wrong?

_"Is it so hard to believe, Daniel? After all the wonders you have seen?"_

Daniel suddenly thought of the Nox, and how Ohper had ever so casually claimed to be 432 years old when they met. And the Goa'uld and Tok'ra symbiotes routinely lived thousands of years. And then there was the Ohne Nem, looking for the long-lost Omoroca for four thousand years (_What fate Omoroca?_).

And even now, no one truly knew the lifespan of an Ancient, after all.


	22. Keeping a Low Profile

Methos's words had been light, but his heart was anything but jovial at the moment. Part of him truly wanted to help Amanda, to remove the bastard's head from his shoulders- and not for any trivial matter such as the Game. Even a century ago, he wouldn't have thought it possible, but he genuinely had changed a great deal over the past few years. Duncan, Amanda, even the grumpy, aging Watcher Joe Dawson, they had brought him back into the world; they'd show him he shouldn't hide from it. A conscience. That was what they'd given him.

Damn them.

"Amanda, I'd love to help you," he said slowly, "but I'd be too much of a liability at the moment. I'd rather not draw attention to you if I can avoid it."

"Plus, they took your sword," she teased him, trying to lift the dour mood slightly.

Methos scowled. "Yes, that, too."

One could never fully calculate the value of the right sword in the hands of an Immortal. He was a pragmatic man, but the loss of his Ivanhoe still galled him. Somehow, he doubted he would ever see the sword again. "I really liked that sword, too," he sighed.

"Well," smiled Amanda, "you could always try tracking down Daniel Jackson and ask for it back, pretty please with sugar on top!"

"And here I was, thinking that was your speciality, Amanda," Methos scoffed light-heartedly. She had a real knack for talking people into things, a skill that was matched only by her ability to get herself into trouble.

Amanda winked suggestively at him, her eyes sparkling like gemstones. "You noticed! Look, though, seriously," she said, her face falling into grimmer lines, "I'm not afraid of taking a little heat under the circumstances. It's worth it, to kill this bastard once and for all. And you've been Adam Pierson, for what, like two decades now; isn't it well past time to retire this identity?"

It was true; Methos had spent far more time as Adam than he had ever expected to. The truth was, he actually liked being Adam. He enjoyed his job, his home, his friends (when they weren't trying to get him killed), his life. But Amanda was right; he simply didn't look his (supposed) age anymore, and calling himself "well-preserved" wouldn't work much longer. So, as soon as the government grew bored watching him, Adam Pierson was going to meet with a tragic, fatal accident, and Pierce Benson, medical student, would appear. Then again... why wait?

"What?" asked Amanda, her expression coy. "I'm old enough to know that look. What are you thinking?"

"Oh, Amanda, I have an idea. One that might work out well for the both of us, actually," Methos slowly grinned. Dying, however temporarily, wasn't fun, but in this case, it was definitely going to be worth it.

"I'm all ears. I wouldn't miss this for all the tea in China," she replied playfully. She was going to like this one, Methos was sure.

~o0o~

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Daniel looked up at Dr. Lam, who sat down across from him with her own tray of food. "Well, I think I might've figured out how Adam Pierson can speak Ancient Egyptian so well."

"Do tell," she said, picking up her fork and stabbing her scrambled eggs.

"Well, this is a little weird, but I think he might've been alive back when it was still spoken," Daniel replied, taking a sip of orange juice.

"What, five thousand years ago?" Lam made a face. "I mean, I don't want to discount the possibility after all the truly bizarre stuff we've seen here, but what's the likelihood?"

"Apparently, pretty good," quipped Daniel, shaking his head in amusement as he recalled his dream.

Lam blinked. "You know something I don't?"

"Only that I _really_ want to talk to him again." He poked absently at the food on his plate. "He might not even _realize_ he knows what he knows, how special he is."

"I'll give you this, he is really good at flying under the radar," the doctor remarked around a blueberry bagel. "After all, Egypt is your field, and you've never even heard of him. Why isn't he out there, writing papers or whatever it is you academics do?"

A slow smile spread across Daniel's face. "Flying under the radar..." he said softly.

"What?" Lam queried, her eyes shifting left and right. "I say something funny? Got some egg on my face somewhere?"

"I think that's exactly what he's doing," Daniel continued as if she hadn't said anything.

"What?"

"Flying under the radar." He leaned back in his chair, chuckling helplessly. "Oh, I've really made a mess of his life, haven't I?"

Dr. Lam stared at him, still lost somewhere a few miles back. "Uh, care to let the rest of the class in on this one, Daniel?"

"He's a _historian_!" Daniel exclaimed, as if this explained everything. "Don't you see? He _has_ to keep a low profile, because if he drew too much attention to himself, someone might figure out the truth about him!"

"Daniel, _we_ don't even know the truth about him," Lam retorted. "Not for sure, anyway."

"Yeah, but whatever it is, I'm pretty sure _he does_," replied Daniel, his smile now somewhat pensive. "He was holding out on us when I questioned him." He snorted softly. "I'm not surprised, all things considered."

"So... what?" Lam asked, gesturing with her fork.

"I don't know," he mused. His eyes were distant, fixed on some far off point. "But I really do want to talk to him again, this time without the cell and the armed guards and stuff. Maybe he'll be more forthcoming."

"Maybe not," the doctor shrugged. "It's not as if you made a good first impression, what with the middle-of-the-night kidnapping. Oh, by the way, while you were asleep, we got a hit on the blood sample taken from the hilt of the sword: it belongs to a guy named Duncan MacLeod. Apparently, he's a fairly prominent antiques dealer in Washington State."

Daniel frowned. "Why is his DNA on record?"

"Seems he's had some troubles with the law, a few field interviews and arrests but he was never actually charged with anything, according to the records," she replied. "And he's definitely not dead, either."

"Well, that's _one_ worry down," Daniel said dryly. He was about to say something further when Sgt. Harriman's voice came over the PA.

_"Dr. Jackson, there's a call for you, line 3."_


	23. All the World's a Stage

Killing an identity used to be so much easier, Methos lamented as he climbed into his car. In days of yore, all one had to do was leave, vanish mysteriously into the night, that sort of thing. Mortals were always so quick to assume death in those days, with good reason; the world used to be a lot more dangerous for the average bloke back then.

More and more often, however, Immortals didn't have the luxury of simply vanishing when they moved on; they needed to demonstrate their death, in front of witnesses. Methos would always be willing to endure the passing pain and annoyance of a temporary death if it was in his best interests, but that hardly meant he _enjoyed _it. In this case, though, he was certain the potential rewards were well worth the trouble.

Of course, this definitely wouldn't do any favors for his reputation as a driver.

The annoying voice of conscience in the back of his mind (_it sounded aggravatingly like that Boy Scout Duncan MacLeod_) forced him to find a nice tree as opposed to a busy intersection in which to meet his "doom".

In his last moments of life, he wondered if Amanda was enjoying his performance as much as he thought she was.

~o0o~

Amanda had to admit, Methos did make quite an impressive show out of losing control of his car and smashing into that tree. He could make a career out of being a stunt driver, performing impossible maneuvers to the envy of his colleagues - if only the danger of accidental decapitation weren't actually real. From her vantage point, she quickly spotted the man who had been following them (clearly a military fellow, but adorably _young!_) pull up with a screech and leap out of his car to render assistance.

"How sweet!" she grinned admiringly as the young man wrenched the car door open to get at what he thought was the victim of a car accident. He was already on his cell phone, no doubt calling for an emergency personnel and all to take Methos for totally unnecessary treatment. Even from this distance, she could tell Methos was already dead. Well, for now, at any rate. Hopefully, he wouldn't revive until they got him to the morgue! Then again, knowing him, he probably set some sort of alarm clock to wake him up at the right time. One could never tell with an Immortal as old as Methos.

Soon, the police arrived, followed swiftly by firefighters (mmm, tasty!), who quickly determined Methos was dead and had his body hauled away in no time while the cops cordoned off the scene for the accident investigation guys. They interviewed the unfortunate soldier, who probably gave them some totally fabricated story about being a random passerby, before releasing him. The soldier actually came within a few yards of where Amanda was watching everything, so she more than happily eavesdropped on his next phone call...

~o0o~

"_Doctor Jackson, it's Corporal Estevez, sir."_ The corporal sounded extremely nervous for some reason.

"What happened, Corporal?" Daniel asked with a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He could almost hear the young man wincing through the phone line. "_Sir, uh, Adam Pierson is, uh, __well, he's dead."_

For the longest moment, Daniel removed the receiver from his ear and stared at it in disbelief. Finally, he returned it and attempted to continue the conversation in a level tone of voice. "I'm sorry, Corporal, did you just say that Adam Pierson is _dead_?"

"_Yes, sir,"_the corporal replied miserably. "He was involved in a car accident less than half an hour ago. He lost control of his vehicle and crashed into a tree. I saw it myself. He was already dead by the time I got to him, and the paramedics confirmed it. They've already taken his body to the morgue."

Daniel inhaled deeply and held it for several seconds before releasing it slowly. "Well, thanks for letting me know, Corporal," he said in lieu of something rather more.. colorful. "Could you come back here as soon as you can? I'd like to hear the, uh, the full report."

"_Yes, sir. I'll be back in a few," _Estevez said, obviously relieved at not being chewed out for something that was totally not his fault anyway. Daniel set down the receiver and returned to his table, where he grabbed up his still half-full tray to dump it off.

"Ooh, that can't be a good sign," observed Dr. Lam, dabbing at her lips with her napkin.

Daniel sighed heavily. "Well, believe it or not, Adam Pierson just had a fatal car accident!"

"You're kidding!" she exclaimed in disbelief, her face saying it all.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Daniel griped in frustration. "I mean, what's the likelihood? The timing alone is just..."

Dr. Lam shrugged noncommittally. "Well, you know as well as I do that weird things have a tendency to happen around here. It's like God playing with loaded dice or something. But, hey, on the plus side, if no one claims his body..."

Daniel made a face. It was not a charming idea, but he'd had his own share of macabre incidents during his time at the SGC. "And if someone _does_ show up to claim the body, maybe at least we can learn more about him. Hopefully," he countered, feeling a the starts of a major headache coming on. "First off, though, I kinda have to tell give General Landry the news."

"Good luck with that," she replied dryly. Her father, despite his generally genial, easy going nature, would definitely _not_ be pleased with this sudden, unexpected turn of events.


	24. Eulogy for Adam Pierson

"Yes," Amanda choked, a sob in her voice, "That's Adam." They closed the curtain again as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

"We don't have a next of kin for Mr. Pierson, ma'am," the assistant said gently. "We need to make notifications so someone can claim the body."

Amanda sniffled, playing it up for all it was worth. "No, Adam has- had- no family. No one still alive, anyway. I guess that just leaves his friends. He didn't have many of us, but we were very close." The assistant kindly held out a tissue for her. "I'll fill out any papers you need me to. He shouldn't be left here."

She was actually in the process of filling out the paperwork when a tall, strongly built man in his early forties appeared. A pair of glasses did nothing to hide the brilliance of his blue eyes, which were set in a handsome face framed by short brown hair. He stood with a confidence and self-assurance that, from its very physicality, Amanda recognized as being from spending time with soldiers. And no Buzz. This, then, was probably Daniel Jackson, in the flesh. More attractive than Methos had let on, too.

"Excuse me," the man said, wearing a tentative smile, "Were you here for Adam Pierson?"

She allowed a slight frown of distress to cross her face. "Yeah... I can't believe he's gone! Who are you? You don't work for the morgue, do you?"

"No, no, I don't. My name is Daniel Jackson. I'm an archaeologist. I met Adam... very recently. If it's alright, can I ask your name?" Kind, polite, and definitely hot. He might be a mortal, but if Amanda weren't so busy at the moment, she'd most certainly consider dallying in Colorado Springs for awhile.

"Oh, I'm Amanda Poisson, but please, call me Amanda" she replied smoothly. Reinette would have been amused, Amanda borrowing her name. But Madame de Pompadour had always appreciated a good joke. "Adam and I have been friends for _years_. We met in Paris, if you can believe it. It turned out we share a lot of common interests, particularly in the area of antique weaponry. In fact, I was having Adam authenticate a sword I had picked up from a dealer in Washington, this absolutely beautiful Ivanhoe in remarkable condition. But when we met this morning, he said it had been stolen, along with some other stuff, historical documents, that sort of thing. He was very upset about it, let me tell you," she ventured shrewdly; from what Methos had said, Amanda was fairly sure that Daniel would be susceptible to a good old fashioned guilt trip. "Like having his own arm cut off, he said. And look at me, I'm short the potential star of my collection. And now, a dear friend, too." She grimaced mournfully, her eyes awash with tears. "It's been a rough day! So, how did you come to know Adam?"

~o0o~

This, then, was the woman who broke into Pierson's motel room that morning.

"Oh, well, we met many years ago in Egypt," Daniel told her easily, repeating what Adam had said to him. It was true, too... after a fashion. "Then we ran into each other again yesterday. It was, uh, it was quite a coincidence." He certainly wasn't about to tell her that he had kidnapped Adam the night before because he mistook him for an evil, glowing-eyed alien. And he did feel guilty about the sword, too. He'd find a way to get it back to her somehow. It _was _extremely valuable, after all, and he didn't actually have any right to keep it, especially now that Adam Pierson was dead.

He'd viewed the body before meeting Amanda; part of him was disappointed that it was still there. But it was there, sure enough, and just as mangled as Corporal Estevez had described it, down to the last gory detail. Any answers he wanted, he would have to get them here, from Amanda.

What he still couldn't figure out is why she broke into his motel room in the early hours of the morning, if she was telling the truth about the sword. Maybe there was a little action going on there, besides a friendship and business relationship. He'd heard of kinkier sex fantasies, to be sure. Spending time with Vala Mal Doran, he heard _a lot_ of kinkier sex fantasies. And the theory would be consistent with their swift dismissal of the investigating police officer at Adam's door.

"To be honest, I really barely knew the guy," Daniel confessed truthfully, setting aside the thoughts of kinky sex fantasies for the moment. "But now that he's gone, well..."

Amanda smiled charmingly; she really was a beautiful woman, and she wore it well. Very well. "...now you wish you knew him better. Yeah, he was like that, Adam. Untold depths. On the surface, he was a guy who'd be more than happy to hide out in some back room and never go anywhere or meet anyone, and just pour over dusty books and obscure texts. But I know for a fact that Adam was quite the world traveler. That's probably how you two met in Egypt. He had all kinds of stories, you wouldn't believe it!" She smiled again, more melancholy this time. "An archaeologist like you, you would have liked him a lot. He had this way of making ancient history just... come alive."

"I don't doubt it," replied Daniel, somewhat ruefully, frustrated at the loss of such an opportunity. Amanda raised a querying eyebrow at him. "We exchanged a few words in Ancient Egyptian," he covered hastily. Fortunately, it happened to be the truth. More or less. "It's been awhile since I've been able to do that with anyone."

"He was like that, _the cleverest bloke in the room_," she said with a grin, imitating Adam's British accent perfectly, much to Daniel's pleasure. "Just like him to die in such a stupid way."


	25. Body Double

Methos woke abruptly, and it took a modicum of his five thousand years of discipline to not to move or gasp loudly. He was supposed to be dead, after all. Noise would call attention to him, defeating the entire purpose of this exercise. However much he hated reviving in a morgue freezer, he was not going to ruin his own plan with a lack of self control. Naturally, he was naked under the sheet, and it was understandably quite cold in the pitch-black room.

Fantastic. Now he had to hope that Amanda completed her part of the exercise before he died again, this time by hypothermia, which would be somewhat ignominious, especially under the circumstances. He could feel her nearby, which was a good sign. Suddenly, he heard muffled voices outside, so he willed himself to total stillness. He was as capable of playing a dead body as any actor. Probably better - he had more practice in .

"Please, could you give me a few minutes alone with him before you take him away?" Methos easily recognized Amanda's voice.

"Are you sure, ma'am?" asked a concerned stranger, probably one of the morgue employees.

Amanda let out a sniffle. "Yes, just a minute or two, to say goodbye. Please."

There was a short pause before the other person answered. "Of course. I'll send the attendants to take his body to the mortuary as soon as you're ready."

Methos heard the sound of retreating footsteps, followed a moment later by the door to the freezer opening. "Methos, you'd better be awake by now. I'm not carrying you out to the car by myself," Amanda said in a low, teasing voice as she flipped on the light.

"You knew I was awake before you even opened the door, Amanda," Methos scoffed quietly, the sheet falling from his upper body as he sat up. The Buzz, after all, was limited only by proximity, and not by physical obstructions like doors or walls. "Now please give me my clothes. I truly have no desire to walk out of here starkers."

"I don't know, it might be entertaining," the younger Immortal grinned cheekily, but reached into her oversized purse and pulled out boxers, jeans, a T-shirt, socks, and his spare trainers (his other shoes, alas, were no doubt ruined in the 'accident' - bloodstains were notoriously hard to get rid of). "Oh, by the way," she said as she handed over the clothes, "you're scheduled to be cremated in a few hours. I thought it would be easier than shipping your body back to Paris. Plus there would be no chance that you might get mysteriously lost in transit."

Methos rolled his eyes, reaching down and pulling off the tag tied to his toe before quickly dressing himself. "Thanks for the consideration, Amanda, it's very much appreciated."

Amanda shrugged, smiling brightly. "Seemed like a good idea at the time. Plus, I was looking through the morgue paperwork while the attendant was distracted, so I found the perfect body double for you. He was going to the potter's field, anyway, and I didn't think he'd mind. Gimme your tag, and you finish dressing."

Methos handed over the tag, pulling on the shirt as Amanda searched for the right corpse with which to switch the tags.

~o0o~

Daniel stood next to Amanda and watched as the men loaded the gurney carrying the simple cardboard box into the back of the hearse to transport Adam Pierson on his last journey to the crematorium, much to his frustration.

"He always told me that he didn't want to rot in the ground when he died," Amanda said wistfully as the attendants closed the doors on their cargo. "Something about archaeologists several millenia from now digging him up and putting him on display in a museum. No offense, Daniel."

He concealed a slight huff and smiled instead. "Yeah, I guess I can understand that." He wouldn't have minded, personally; it would've tickled him to be the subject of such scientific curiosity and scrutiny. But Daniel knew, all too well, that not everyone shared his views on the matter. Once again, he was reminded abruptly of Jack O'Neill: the man would have probably said much the same thing as Adam.

"After he's been cremated, I'm going to scatter his ashes in the Nile. He'd like that, I think. Full circle for him," continued Amanda, smiling softly. As the hearse pulled away, she issued a final sigh before she turned and started towards the parking lot.

"You mind if I join you?" Daniel asked, following after her. "I know I didn't know him well, but since he doesn't have anyone else here, I thought..." He trailed off, saddened by the thought that one such as Adam would die with so little to mark his passing. Ashes on the wind. The least he could do is show his respect by standing with Amanda. And maybe learn more about Adam at the same time.

Amanda abruptly grinned, and the mood lightened dramatically. "You know any good bars around here? Adam was always looking around for the best pint," she snickered fondly. "I know it'd be the best way to honor him. I just _know _that he'd appreciate it."

Daniel's eyebrows shot up. It wasn't exactly unheard of for academics to indulge - or overindulge - in alcohol. "Oh, a beer snob, was he?"

Her face lit up in memory, a brilliant expression that only enhanced her natural beauty. "Don't you know it! Adam drank frequently, and often to excess, but always the good stuff. Bad beer was his pet peeve. Drove him absolutely nuts! And, if you weren't careful, he'd launch into a discussion of the history of beer, how it's the oldest fermented drink in the history of the world, and how it was part of the daily diet of Egyptian pharaohs over five thousand years ago..."

It was all Daniel could do not to swallow his own tongue. Instead, he ended up coughing and wheezing, the blood rushing to his face. The very thought of the Goa'uld System Lords enjoying a pint of beer every day left him gasping for breath and Amanda staring at him with a very bemused expression.

"You okay?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **"Trainers" is the British term for athletic shoes, also known in the U.S. as tennis shoes. Also, a potter's field, or a common plot, is a graveyard for unclaimed or unidentified bodies and those too poor to afford their own burial plot. And beer apparently played quite a significant role in Ancient Egyptian society, and was considered a fitting gift to the gods.


	26. A Toast To an Absent Friend

The trick, Methos had learned, to entering (or, in this case, leaving) a supposedly secured area is to act as if you belonged there. Walk with purpose, and most people wouldn't even give you a second thought, let alone actually challenge your presence. So, while Amanda was distracting Daniel Jackson at back door with the imposter body at the hearse, Methos simply walked right out the front. True to human nature, the morgue staff all assumed, quite wrongly, that he was a visitor there to identify a decedent. None of them even noticed that one of their own customers had got up and left. Even if, against all odds, one of them _had _recognized him as the unfortunate car accident victim from that morning, he or she would have dismissed the notion as utterly ludicrous and decided that another cup of coffee was in order.

Ah, human nature. How he loved it.

After that, he drove away in Amanda's car. He had stashed his dagger and money cache in the car at the same time they had retrieved his clothes from the motel room. Unfortunately, he had been forced to leave behind the rest of his belongings, so as to not arouse suspicion prior to his spectacular staged demise. But the money would be more than enough to tide him over until he could start his new life. First, however, he had a call to make.

He purchased a disposable mobile phone from a local shop. His own phone was, of course, still in his wrecked car, and much may the American military enjoy listening to sounds of heavy machinery before the vehicle was crushed for scrap. Peevishly, he hoped their bugs were expensive. With a heavy sigh, he sat down on an unoccupied park bench and dialed a familiar number.

It rang only twice before it was picked up. "_Hello?" _

"What, no time for pleasantries? Just 'hello'? What is this world coming to?" Methos drawled into the phone.

He could practically hear the eyeroll, even over the phone line. "_Hello, Old Man. It's been a while. You know how much I love to hear from you. Say, how've you been? Avoided any challenges lately?" _

"Yes, now _there's _the Duncan MacLeod I remember. I just thought you and Joe should know that Adam Pierson died in a tragic car accident this morning. Oh, and by the way, Amanda's here, and we're going to be hunting down a would-be Lorca once she throws off an archaeologist who showed an inordinate interest in me by having his U.S. military employers _kidnap me _last night!" His tone was light, but his words and their implications were anything but.

There was a long pause on the other end. "_Maybe you should start from the beginning. If you can remember when it is," _the Highlander said finally.

"Oh, you're hilarious, you are," Methos retorted, but threw his mind back to the previous day. "There was something of a case of mistaken identity..."

~o0o~

Daniel didn't normally frequent bars. That sort of thing generally wasn't his idea of fun. When he drank, it was usually at a friend's house, partly because they could be relied upon to make sure he got back to his apartment in one piece. His low alcohol tolerance was practically legendary at the SGC, much to his annoyance. There was one story about oranges and beer bottles that simply wouldn't die. So, for the most part, Daniel pretty much avoided bars.

But Amanda... she had a way of talking a man into doing anything she wanted. So it was that Daniel found himself in a bar, well into his fourth beer and totally blitzed, having started out with the completely serious intention of sharing a single drink before getting back to the SGC.

_How did she do it? _he wondered absently through an alcohol-induced haze. Chuckling to himself, he shook his head and dismissed the thought as completely irrelevant. Mitchell had told him about this place; he had to admit it, the beer was _great_.

"What's so funny, Daniel?" Amanda asked, smiling brightly.

"Nothing, it's nothing. Here's to Adam, a guy of untold depths!" He held up his glass in toast, and Amanda clinked her own. Was she on her fourth or fifth? Or was it her second? Daniel couldn't remember.

"Untold depths!" agreed Amanda as her cheeks flushed red.

"No one else like him in the world."

Amanda gesticulated with her glass, nodding forcefully. "Now, _that's _true. Not a soul like him out there."

Daniel paused, his eyes unfocused and lids drooping slightly. Something was nagging at the back of his mind. He felt like he was forgetting something. Something important, something to do with Dr. Lam. Ah, well. He'd probably remember it later, he shrugged finally. "Just wish I knew him better. A car accident just seems so... mundane."

"Yeah, he was the sort of guy you'd expect to, I don't know, get thrown into a tar pit, or get hit by space junk, or be mauled by a hippo. It's so unfair!" Amanda exclaimed mournfully.

"When we ran into each other yesterday, I thought he was someone else," Daniel remarked in detached amusement. "Funny thing is, the guy I thought he was is dead. Well, was already dead. I'm telling you, though, the resemblance was incredible, to say the least."

Amanda grinned widely, showing her remarkably even, white teeth. "He has that effect on people. He's got one of those faces that leaves people asking 'Don't I know you from somewhere?'. Drove him absolutely nuts."

Daniel chuckled wryly before polishing off his beer. "I used to get that sometimes before I came here. There was this one time, I was up in some city in Washington State, I don't even remember why, and this guy was totally convinced that my name was Jesse. It took _forever _to get it across that I wasn't who he thought I was." He absently glanced at his watch and was surprised at the hour. "Woah, I need to be getting home..." There was a briefing with SG-2 tomorrow... something about Ancient ruins... The room seemed to spin a bit as he stood up. Amanda quickly moved to his side and threw his arm over her shoulder to support him. "You're a lot stronger than you look," Daniel observed as she guided him towards the door.

"I get that a lot!" she replied cheekily as she pulled his car keys out of his pocket.


	27. Storm Warning

MacLeod was more than a little concerned about the military showing any sort of interest in an Immortal, even mistakenly. God only knew what would happen if the existence of Immortals became known. Keeping the secret was something almost every Immortal, even the most depraved, agreed on. Methos still remembered with terrifying clarity that brief moment when a Watcher's grieving widow threatened to reveal them all to the world. The secret must be kept.

"Which is one of the reasons Adam Pierson died. But there's more," Methos continued grimly. He quickly filled MacLeod in on the details of the man who questioned him. The very mortal archaeologist who Methos had met in Egypt five thousand years before.

There was silence on the line for a long moment. "_How is that even possible?"_Duncan wanted to know.

"Either he's a different sort of Immortal, or he's got a time machine," Methos replied. "I'm leaning towards the latter."

"_You have to be kidding, Methos. A time machine?"_

"I'm a five thousand year old Immortal, MacLeod. A thousand years ago, the Internet would be the ravings of a deluded mind. Look, he's an archaeologist working for a military black project. Who knows what they're up to? Anyway, Dr. Jackson isn't my immediate concern anymore, especially now that he thinks I'm dead and cremated," Methos pointed out. "It's this Immortal that Amanda is tracking I'm more worried about."

Megalomaniacal Immortals weren't, unfortunately, that uncommon. But the ones who gathered followers and formed cults and the like tended to draw unwanted attention, especially in modern times. The world was growing ever smaller, and Immortals were definitely feeling the pinch.

"_You got a name for this Immortal?"_

"Amanda said he calls himself Sydyk, but I doubt he's actually old enough to be Phoenician. If he were, I'm fairly certain I would've heard of him." There simply weren't a lot of Immortals left from that long ago. There were few enough left now over two thousand years, and Methos knew all their names. "I'm guessing he picked the name because it fits in with his delusions of godhood. Somehow, 'Bob Smith from Brixton' just doesn't have the ring of divinity," Methos said dryly. "Maybe Joe can get a real name on this bastard, too, before one of us takes his head."

"_Okay, I'll talk to Joe and get back to you. Oh, Methos? Be careful, and watch your head," _MacLeod warned him seriously.

"Don't worry, Highlander, I'm more than capable of keeping my head attached to my neck. I only need to be concerned when _you_ darken my doorstep. You are a _magnet _for trouble, MacLeod." That Scotsman had been in more trouble in his four hundred years than Methos had in five times that span, it seemed. But, even now, Methos couldn't wish for a more stalwart friend. With those words, he hung up and pondered his next move. The so-called Sydyk was probably still in Colorado Springs, somewhere.

So, to find him.

~o0o~

Amanda must not have been as drunk as Daniel thought she was, because they made it to Daniel's apartment in one piece.

"Hey, how'd you know where I live?" he asked muzzily as she unlocked the door with his keys.

Amanda patted him on the shoulder, a smile on her lips. "Driver's license in your wallet. Come on, Daniel, let's get you inside." She opened the door and guided him in. "Wow, nice place," Amanda remarked as she took in her surroundings. As a collector, no doubt she could appreciate his own collection, which was impressive, if he did say so himself.

"Thanks," he replied with a big grin. "It's taken me a lot of years to get all this stuff. You wouldn't _believe _where some of this comes from."

Amanda chuckled as she gently let him down on the couch. "Oh, I think I would." She spotted the centerpiece on his coffee table. "Is that a medieval European trephine? It's in remarkable condition."

He'd picked that up before he left a world where a young woman named Mary, who came near to having that trephine bore into her skull to release the 'evil spirits'. It had taken Jack only a few minutes to diagnose chicken pox instead of possession. Daniel was surprised Amanda recognized the tool. "You're right," Daniel said, certain that his apartment had to stop spinning at some point. To his surprise, Amanda then went over to examine the enormous shelf stuffed full of his journals. Thoughtfully, she pulled out the oldest and opened it up. "_Colonel O'Neill thinks I'm a geek. I have no idea how to get us back. I'll never get paid_," she read aloud.

Daniel suddenly grew cold inside, a surge of adrenaline sobering him somewhat. "Ah, those are my archaeological journals. Very boring stuff."

The woman raised her eyebrows, but returned the journal to its place on the shelf. "Must be, if they're labeled things like 'P3X-774'. What is that, a dig designation?"

"Something like that." He heard Jack's voice in his head, lecturing him on operational security. Keep the secret. Even totally plastered, Daniel still heard him. Apparently, more than ten years' friendship can do that to a man. Fortunately, most of his journals were written in various obscure languages as an exercise to keep his mind sharp, so they wouldn't mean anything to most people. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

Fortunately, Amanda saved him from himself. "Maybe I can come by another time. We can share another drink, maybe. But I gotta run. Have to pack up Adam's stuff from his motel room, let a few people know. I'll be seeing you around."

"Yeah, I'd like that," Daniel replied truthfully. He did like Amanda, a lot. She was smart and beautiful, witty and charming. "How is it you're not married?" he asked curiously.

Amanda grinned brightly from the door. "Just not good with long-term relationships, I guess. Short term, now _those _I can definitely manage."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **A trephine is the tool used in the trepanning procedure, which, contrary to what Daniel said in the third season episode "Demons," wasn't usually used to treat demonic possession, but rather such things as seizures and head injuries. I've always found Daniel's understanding of the medieval period to be somewhat... lacking. He is portrayed as believing the popular caricature of the medieval period as an era when superstition and ignorance reigned over science and rational thought. This is a failure on the part of the script writers, rather than the character.

The journal Amanda reads from is Daniel's Abydos diary, which was also quoted in the first season episode "Fire and Water."

P3X-774, for those of you who are wondering, is the Nox world.


	28. On the Hunt

Amanda smiled affectionately as she closed the door to Daniel's apartment. He had a brilliant mind, lovely eyes, and a very nice rear end, but he had to be one of the lightest-weight drinkers she'd ever met in her life - and that was saying something! She wasn't even buzzed, and he was practically falling down blitzed after only four or five beers. It was so adorable.

Her phone rang as she stepped out onto the street.

"_So, how's our mutual friend doing? I do hope you left him with all his limbs intact. He wasn't a bad fellow, despite the midnight kidnapping," _Methos said by way of greeting.

"Don't worry, he's fine. I just dropped him off at his apartment. We drank some beers in your honor, and he got totally smashed. So sweet! Anyway, I'm pretty sure I'll be able to get your Ivanhoe back shortly, once he gets over the massive hangover he's going to have in the morning. You bring Mac up to speed?"

Methos snorted impolitely. "_I had to all but beg him not to come tearing off to the airport to fly over here. The last thing we need is for Duncan MacLeod to barge in here and make a scene. How that man is still living in Seacouver under the same identity is beyond me."_

"Well, we can't all be like you, Methos," Amanda grinned, laughter dancing in her voice. She hadn't known the Old Man for all that long (relative to the life of an Immortal), but she really did love him, despite his many faults. "Any luck so far tracking down Sydyk?" she asked, the humor fading.

"_Surprisingly, yes," _he replied. "_You'd be surprised what you can find out with a publicly available police blotter. In this case, a very distinctive pattern of disturbance calls and petty theft reports at stores in the area of my motel room, where you were looking for Sydyk and found me instead."_

"No one accused this guy of being smart. Evil, yes, and completely depraved. But not smart," she observed with dark wryness. "You want me to help you look for him?"

"_Where's your faith in me, Amanda? I was tracking down Immortals for thousands of years before you graced this planet, and I'll probably be doing so long after someone's taken your head." _Methos was many things; 'humble' was definitely not one of them, though he was pretty good at faking it when he needed to. This was not one of those times. "_Anyway, you need to keep up the pretense that I'm dead in case the good Dr. Jackson doesn't stop nosing around. I can handle this on my own. Just send me the surveillance photos you took of the high priests and Sydyk, and I'll be fine."_

She hated it when the Old Man was right, which he very often was. He just didn't need to be so smug about it. "Alright, just be careful. I don't want you to do something stupid and accidentally lose your head."

Methos scoffed in disbelief. "_You do remember who you're talking to, yes? I'm not MacLeod, by any stretch of the imagination. I actually value my life."_

"Right, who was I kidding?" Amanda snarked sarcastically. "Because you've never done anything _remotely _foolish in the time I've known you."

"_Amanda-"_

"Never mind." She let out a sharp breath. "Just let me know when you locate him. And remember that his head's mine."

~o0o~

Though Methos was more used to hiding than hunting these days, Sydyk and his so-called high priests weren't making things all that difficult for him. Though the Immortal himself seemed to be laying low, his goons appeared incapable of doing the same. Their arrogance and cold superiority towards everyone they came in contact with might have intimidated the store clerks and shopkeepers where they were from, but they were strangers in a military town now. Even the civilians _not _related to the military personnel had friends or acquaintances among them, it seemed.

Methos still wasn't sure why he seemed to be setting up shop in Colorado Springs; what possible draw could there be for an Immortal like Sydyk? His henchmen were already attracting the attention of local law enforcement. Clearly he couldn't stay here all that long, especially if they ever managed to connect him with his last cult. Therefore he likely had a reason for coming.

Still, the police blotter proved very helpful in narrowing down the area in which Sydyk was likely holed up. After that, it didn't take long to spot some of the 'high priests' attempting to intimidate a clerk at small hardware store.

If Methos were an honest fellow, he'd admit it was actually a stroke of luck he came upon his quarry so quickly, but honesty was not exactly one of his primary attributes. Normally, it would have taken days to find someone like this in a city the size of Colorado Springs.

It was a good thing none of Sydyk's cronies was actually Immortal, because they would've sensed Methos for certain when he practically tripped over them. As it was, they barely even acknowledged his existence except to dismiss him - Methos wasn't exactly a physically imposing sort, and he was an expert at feigning servility and meekness when the situation called for it. So, instead of skewering the cretin who was raising his hand to strike the innocent clerk, Methos shied away, his eyes wide with false fear, before retreating to Amanda's car and waiting for the man and his fellow Immortal-worshipers to emerge from the store.

Idiots. Methos smirked triumphantly. They really were making this far too easy.

~o0o~

Daniel snored away in bed, his sleep this night haunted by dreams of sand and heat and a mysterious man with dark eyes, wielding a plain but somehow beautiful long sword that seemed perfect in his hand, almost an extension of his arm. The man danced in combat with an unseen attacker, bobbing and weaving as gracefully as any acrobat. Moonlight glittered along the blade as it swung through the desert air, hypnotizing and entrancing - until the sword came down forcefully and a river of blood spurted through the air, covering the man's hands and face with a horrific crimson stain.

The man stood in place for a moment, a pale white glow surrounding him. Then he locked eyes with Daniel, his expression both sad and cold. "What is a man but the sum of his memories? What does that make _me_?" Then he smirked, and said in derision, "You are forgetting something, Doctor Jackson."

Daniel snapped awake, panting and covered in sweat. Checking the clock, he realized it was just past four in the morning. Groaning at the pounding in his head, he stumbled towards the bathroom to find an aspirin. A half-remembered dream flitted through his mind for a moment before vanishing completely.


	29. Who Watches the Watchers?

It was a good thing, Methos decided, that he'd never had much interest in being cop, because stakeouts were always one of his least-favorite parts of hunting. Playing by the rules never really appealed to him, either, but he simply hated sitting around and waiting. Watching really wasn't his forte.

Hilarious then, that he spent so many years as a Watcher. Admittedly, though, he was never in the field, actually tracking another Immortal during that time. No, he had been assigned the task of researching the ancient chronicles of an almost mythological Immortal known as Methos... That, as he recalled, had been quite possibly the most peaceful stretch of time he'd known in five thousand years. A period which, alas, ended when a certain do-gooder Highlander named Duncan MacLeod walked into his flat in Paris.

What a twisted road his life was - a lot like the residential tract he was in at that very moment, in the very southeast of Colorado Springs.

It all seemed so perfectly ordinary at first glance, very white-picket-fency, American Dream, and definitely expensive. Each house featured two or more levels, multi-car garages, spacious plots, professional landscaping, and quite the view. He didn't see golden retrievers in any of the yards, but it really wasn't much of a stretch to put one there.

Methos's quarry turned into the driveway of one of these homes and pulled into the garage. This, then, was probably their base of operations. Not bad for fugitives from the law, but being Immortal had its perks; the truly smart Immortals were clever enough to make good investments that accumulated over time. One of Methos's aliases had made a rather impressive fortune in Apple stocks over the last few years. Too bad he couldn't get at it at the moment.

He watched the men as they vanished from view before pulling out his phone and consulting GoogleMaps, one of the many wonderful inventions of the 21st Century. His eyes traced the street he was on, curving up the hill; he noticed that the houses on the west side of the street backed up against an access road leading up the to one of the five or so military bases in the Colorado Springs area: the NORAD facility, nestled safely underground beneath Cheyenne Mountain.

"Hm," he mused, frowning at the map. Judging by the twists and turns of that access road, he figured it was a good possibility that he had been held by Daniel Jackson's mysterious military friends at that same facility. Coincidence?

Methos hated coincidences. One of the few things he distrusted more than beer gifted by strangers.

He filed the information away for future reference and continued his clandestine surveillance as the sun vanished behind Cheyenne Mountain. He wanted to learn all he could about Sydyk and his plans before he called in Amanda. Unlike some Immortals, he had no intention of walking into a situation unprepared. What could they possibly be up to here?

~o0o~

"Wow. You look terrible," Dr. Lam said as she walked into Daniel's office at the SGC. "What happened after you left yesterday? You go hang out with Colonel Mitchell at a bar somewhere?"

Daniel winced heavily as the clicking of her high heels on the hard floor seemed to stab through his brain. "Stop walking so loudly," he begged her. "And it wasn't Mitchell."

The doctor made an exaggerated expression of surprise. "So you were hanging out at a bar! Don't tell me that Vala dragged you out on the town. Again."

"She's not back on Earth yet. At least I don't think she is. What day is it, anyway?" he asked as he rubbed his eyes blearily.

"And you _drove_ to work today?" Lam exclaimed in disbelief. "It's Thursday morning. How was your briefing with SG-2?"

"Could've gone better," he admitted with wry humor. When Griff and his compatriots had finished reaming him for being so late, they teased him about looking like something the cat dragged in. And of course they brought up the story about the oranges and beer bottles. Again. One of these days, Daniel was going to _kill_ Jack O'Neill for telling that particular tale to what seemed like the entire SGC.

"So, who was she?" the doctor asked, leaning down conspiratorially. "You better spill, or I'm going to tell Vala everything when she gets back."

"But you don't _know_ anything."

Dr. Lam grinned brightly. "That's never stopped anyone before, has it?"

"Carolyn..." Daniel groaned.

"Wow, one little hangover, and you completely lose your sense of fun," she teased. "Anyway, I got Adam Pierson's autopsy report from the El Paso County Coroner's Office." She slid the file across the desk to Daniel, who opened it curiously.

"Anything interesting?"

"Nothing pops out immediately," she admitted somewhat ruefully. "Adam Pierson was in perfect health when he died. I mean, besides the extensive and very fatal trauma to the head and chest he suffered during the car accident, obviously."

Daniel pulled out a photo of one of Pierson's wrists, showing a tattoo of an odd Y-shaped design in a circle. "Did we ever identify this tattoo?" he asked, holding up the photo.

The doctor frowned slightly. "I'm not sure. Here, let me check..." She leaned over Daniel and tapped at his keyboard for a minute. "We were running it through various databases, and... wow."

Daniel stared at the screen in surprise. "Are these people all murder victims?"

"Yeah," Lam said softly, swiftly reading the text file attached to the photo array. "Apparently, a bunch of people with this tattoo turned up dead in Europe, a lot in Paris, in the mid-90s. No real connection between the victims, other than an apparent interest in ancient history."

"A whole bunch of history buffs murdered? How come I didn't hear about this?"

"You really have to ask that question? You were gone on Abydos for a year, remember? And when you got back, didn't you spend all your time with Jack O'Neill, running around with your head buried in the sand on other planets?" she said mockingly. "It probably would've been surprising if you'd noticed anything in the next _room_, let alone another continent."

"Oh. Right." He stared at the tattoo for a few more moments. "So, Adam having this tattoo. He was a historian, too, wasn't he? Maybe the tattoo was some sort of, I don't know, fraternity."

"What, like the historians' equivalent of the Freemasons?" Her tone indicated some measure of disbelief.

Daniel offered her a crooked smile. "Secret societies have a long and storied history going back to the dawn of civilization. The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, Ordo Aequitas Albion, the Tahitian Arioi-"

Laughing, she held up a hand to forestall his monologue. "I get the idea, Daniel!"

"And you complained about me being no fun. This stuff is fun!" he griped affectionately as he returned the picture of the tattoo to the autopsy report. "Hey, wait." Daniel flipped the picture upside down and held it up again. "I've seen this before!"

"What? Where?" Dr. Lam asked, a frown crossing her face.

"Here." Daniel gingerly picked up one of the Methos chronicles they'd taken from Adam Pierson's motel room. Engraved on the ancient binding was that very same symbol.

"Wait, isn't that thing like hundreds of years old?"

"Yeah..." Daniel replied absently. Delicately, he opened it to the first page of text. "_Here begins the Chronicle of the immortal Methos, recorded for those who watch_," he translated the Latin aloud.

"'Those who watch'? Now, that's not creepy-sounding at all," the dark-haired doctor replied sarcastically.

A slow smile crept across his face. "Not 'those who watch'. The Watchers. Adam Pierson was part of a secret society of Watchers, one that has apparently been around for hundreds of years at least. Either that, or a group of history buffs just thought this symbol was really cool and decided to use it themselves, which is totally possible in academic circles. Either way, whatever they were doing got a bunch of them killed."

"Ooookay... but can I ask the obvious question? Who were they watching?"

Daniel shrugged. "No idea. But maybe Amanda knows something."**  
><strong>  
>"Wait," Lam interrupted, "Is this the same Amanda that was doing a breaking-and-entering impression the other night?"<p>

"Oh, yeah." The archaeologist couldn't help but smile, despite his hangover. Amanda was really one helluva woman.


	30. Questions and (few) Answers

Amanda glanced around Methos's motel room, making one last sweep to make sure she hadn't missed anything. If she had, doubtless he'd let her know later in less than flattering terms. Most Immortals of a certain age were pack rats, and the Old Man was no exception. Fortunately, he hadn't brought a lot with him on this trip, and Daniel Jackson's mysterious black ops boys had stolen all of Methos's more unusual belongings when they searched the place.

So, mostly, she was left to gather up his clothes and toothbrush and a few other things. Methos would definitely thank her for it, too; the cleaning woman was definitely stealing out of the guests' rooms when she did 'room service'. (Honestly, Amanda had seen better - and definitely more honest - janitorial service in public restrooms in New York City subway stations.) No doubt Methos had put the Fear of God into her, but all bets were off now that Adam Pierson was dead.

She chuckled as she held one of his sweaters in her hands. It one of those oversized things he often wore, an article of clothing that screamed 'starving academic' and looked like he'd bought it at a flea market or thrift store. Definitely not stylish, and certainly not something that she would soon wear herself. But Methos made an art out of blending in, hiding, and just plain fading into the background, a skill Amanda still hadn't mastered in her millennium of life. Not that she'd ever put very much effort into it. Where would the fun be if she did?

A soft rapping at the door interrupted her thoughts. She didn't feel the Buzz of a nearby Immortal, so she set the sweater aside and cautiously checked the peephole. A grin crossed her face as she recognized the man on the other side.

"Daniel!" she greeted him with a brilliant smile as she opened the door. The archaeologist's eyes were a bit bloodshot and shadowed, but otherwise he seemed none the worse for wear for the previous day's libations.

And, he was holding a long case in his hands. Amanda very nearly squealed for joy.

"Hey, Amanda," he grinned briefly as he came into the room and set the case on the table. "I hoped I could find you here. I did some checking around, and you won't believe what I found."

Oh, she'd take that bet, she thought gleefully.

He opened up the case, revealing Methos's Ivanhoe, shining with polish and looking even more beautiful now than it did when Amanda first saw it. She threw her arms around Daniel, hugging him tightly. "Oh, thank you so much, Daniel! I can't tell you how much this means to me! Adam would have been so happy you found it! I'm not even going to ask how much trouble you put yourself through to get it back for me." She couldn't resist the dig; it was totally worth it to see him flush with guilt.

"It really wasn't any trouble," he protested, obviously not expecting her sudden embrace but not exactly protesting. "And it gave me the chance to see you again." Daniel flashed her his brilliant, charming smile again. She hadn't come to Colorado Springs with any plans of dallying with a mortal, but after the current hunt was over, she just might consider it.

"You really know how to flatter a girl, don't you?" she teased him, stepping back to wink flirtatiously at him.

The tall archaeologist shrugged cheerfully. "I do my best." His expression faltered somewhat. "Oh, yesterday, I was meaning to ask you... about Adam..."

Amanda raised her eyebrows, prompting him forward. "Yes?"

"I was curious about the tattoo on his wrist. The one that sort of looked like a 'Y'. Do you happen to know what it was all about? I never got anything more than that it was from some sort of historical society."

Every cell in Amanda's body suddenly filled with a watchful tension. This could be bad, very, very bad. If Daniel decided to look more closely into the Watchers- well, with the resources at his disposal, things could get very messy, very fast. "You know, I don't think he ever really told me what it was about. But Adam was a very strange person sometimes. He could've gotten that old thing anywhere," she said in a dismissive tone.

"He's had it for a while?" Daniel asked with seeming innocence.

Amanda shrugged noncommittally. "As long as _I've _known him, at any rate. Come to think of it, I did ask him about it once, a long time ago. You know what he said?"

Daniel's eyebrows rose curiously. "What?"

"He said he got it in as part of his initiation into the inner circle of an ancient society of Egyptian beer brewers," she replied with a laugh. The story was just absurd enough for Methos to have actually told it, rather than her making it up on the spot. "Now, mind you, he told me this with a straight face, and then offered to sponsor me as a neophyte! He really did love his beer. Honestly, he could have gotten it anywhere. Personally, I think he got it to impress a girl. Picked it out of a book or something. Anyway, he never made a big deal out of it, and he was always wearing those ridiculous, _totally _un-stylish sweaters, so his sleeves usually covered it up. Guess that relationship ended badly."

"Huh." The archaeologist had a pensive look in his eyes. "You ever see anyone else with the same tattoo? Even in Paris?"

"Paris?" she repeated in confusion and slight alarm. How had Paris come into this?

"Yeah, the other day you said that you two met in Paris."

"Oh, right," Amanda said, careful not to show her relief. She'd forgotten that she'd mentioned that. Not good. Daniel might be handsome and have zero alcohol tolerance, but he was also very nearly as sharp as the Old Man's Ivanhoe on the table next to them. Dalliance was suddenly the last thing on her mind. "Nope, never noticed it on anyone else. But it was a lot of years ago now." She offered a sheepish, apologetic shrug. "Sorry."

~o0o~

Daniel just had that nagging feeling he was scratching at the surface of something, something he couldn't even put a name to. It was insanely frustrating. Adam Pierson was definitely something more, something Ancient. It seemed that however many questions Daniel asked, he only found himself further and further from the truth.

He opened his mouth to ask another question, but suddenly Amanda's cell phone started ringing - Daniel vaguely recognized the ringtone as something by an English rock band from the mid-80s.

"Oh, sorry," she winced contritely. "These things always ring at the worst possible times!" She checked the caller ID, her expression turning rueful. "I really should take this. It's the old man. Maybe we could get together later for drinks?"

Daniel winced, not wanting a repeat of that morning. One hangover per decade was more than enough for him. "Maybe not drinks, but I know a few good restaurants around here." At least Amanda seemed willing to leave him an opening. Even if he didn't learn anything more about Adam Pierson, it would be good to simply have dinner with a smart, witty, beautiful woman.

"I'll call you later, then. I got your number off your phone yesterday." With a cheeky grin and a flirtatious wink, she answered the call, and Daniel quietly excused himself.

After leaving the motel room, Daniel sat in his car for several minutes, tapping his steering wheel with his thumbs and mulling over what he'd learned. Ancient Egyptian _beer-brewers_? Given that all the tattooed victims had been historians, Adam had probably made it up in a fit of historical hilarity. Amanda didn't have a reason, as far as Daniel knew, to invent such a ridiculous story about the tattoo, though she did seem to tense ever so slightly when he brought up Paris. He had surreptitiously checked her wrist for the tattoo, but her arms were totally bare. Of course, all this meant Daniel was still no closer to figuring out what the tattoo actually meant, or why so many who wore it were murdered.

With a quick huff of frustration, he decided to head back to the mountain. Adam Pierson was dead; the matter would undoubtedly keep for a while longer. He did have a day job, after all, and more tangible and pressing issues at hand.


	31. A Not-So-Pleasant Surprise

Daniel sat at his desk, staring blankly into the air. The whole Adam Pierson business nagged at him, no matter how much he tried to lay it aside. Quite frankly, it was driving him nuts. With a sigh of frustration, he decided to check his email instead as a distraction.

The backlog in his in-box was atrocious, just as he expected; he really should check it more often, but even though he was no longer going through the Gate on a regular basis there was always something to do, some artifact that required his attention. He quickly scanned the contents of his email. Numerous requests for his assistance in translation of texts both Ancient and Goa'uld origin, something from Jack about _The Simpsons_, some complaint or other from Dr. Kavanagh (he deposited this directly into the trash without reading it), cute cat pictures from Nurse Rush, an inventory update from Nyan (the man really deserved a raise)...

Then he saw an autoalert from a program he'd almost forgotten about. They'd created it years ago to scan news and law enforcement reports for possible Goa'uld hiding out on Earth - the program had been instrumental in locating the former System Lord Seth and his latest cult near Seattle. Of course, that time they had been looking for him specifically. After Seth's demise, he left the program running in the background for similar MOs, in case there were other Goa'uld they'd missed or were simply better at hiding than Seth.

As time passed, and other world-ending problems and galaxy-threatening enemies appeared, he'd pretty much forgotten the program existed. But now it had sent him an alert, flagging an article out of a paper in rural Washington State: a mass-slaughter of 84 men, women, and children at a compound run by a person calling himself Sydyk. Absently, Daniel recognized the name as that of an ancient Phoenician deity.

The program's alert also flagged the related FBI report; it contained details about how the father of one of the members of this compound had attempted to kill Sydyk with a rifle, believing that Sydyk's death would free his daughter from what he believed to be mind-control powers.

When that failed, the locals appealed to the Feds, but before the FBI could even arrive, all the members of the cult were killed, possibly by poison. Agent McCormick described in stark detail the horror of all the bodies scattered around the compound, just collapsed in place. A small fire had to be put out because a roast had been left in the oven for too long. And Sydyk and several others, identified as his bodyguards or aides, were nowhere to be found.

Daniel felt a strange sense of deja vu as he read McCormick's report; it was as if he were reading Seth's background all over again. It was as clear as daylight that Sydyk was a Goa'uld.

Unfortunately, the email alert was dated several days ago. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh of self-recrimination. Sydyk could be anywhere by now.

He read through the rest of the FBI file, including the physical description of Sydyk and a few blurry photos provided by locals. White male, sixties, grey hair, slightly paunchy.

A thought occurred to Daniel.

"Oh, you've gotta be kidding," he groaned aloud.

He knew _exactly_ who Sydyk was.

* * *

><p>Methos felt the Buzz as Amanda pulled up behind him in her rental. They both stepped out of their cars and he walked over to meet her.<p>

"What is Sydyk doing here? I thought you said his little bolt-hole was up near Cheyenne Mountain. This is a step down, isn't it?" Amanda glanced around the street. Methos agreed with her assessment; while it wasn't a slum by any stretch, he didn't know why Sydyk and his goons would come to this staunchly middle-class neighborhood when they had already had a place with a much nicer view.

It wasn't as if he were concerned about the local parks or the quality of the schools, after all.

"No idea," he replied. "But I doubt they're selling Girl Scout cookies. They parked over there and walked into the backyard of that red house, the one with the green door." He gestured with his head to the house in question. There didn't seem to be anything unusual about it at all. No cars were in the driveway, and the house seemed empty. "They are definitely inside, though. Saw some movement upstairs."

"Okay." Amanda's face hardened as she formulated her plan. "We'll split up once we're inside. I'll go in through the upstairs window, you come in downstairs and distract the goon squad while I take Sydyk's head," she said as she turned towards their target.

Methos grabbed her arm warningly. "Remember why we're here, yes? Sydyk's head only. Whatever mortal servants he has should be left for the police. It shouldn't be too hard for them to link them to the massacre in Washington."

She flashed him a mirthless smile. "I might not be as old as you, but I've been around the block a few times. Don't worry. I'll keep my head in the Game. Oh, speaking of, I've got something that belongs to you."

Amanda popped open the trunk and gestured to a long, narrow case. Despite the grim situation, Methos could not help a smile of genuine pleasure as he pulled out his precious Ivanhoe.

"Compared to some guys I've known, Daniel was pushover," she remarked cheekily. "The rest of your stuff from the motel is in here, too."

He quickly grabbed his long coat and put it on, returning his Ivanhoe to its accustomed hiding spot. It wasn't particularly cool out, but he'd gladly endure a little discomfort to have that sword back. Amanda, he could tell, was similarly armed. He also had his knife and a gun, too, just to be safe. He didn't expect to be using the sword in this situation, but one couldn't be too careful when dealing with a fellow Immortal.

"Shall we?" She gestured with mock gallantry.

"Oh, no, ladies first, please," he replied with equal mockery as he slammed the trunk lid.

Their approach to the house wasn't exactly brazen, but it wasn't stealthy, either. At this juncture, any attempt at stealth during daylight hours would effective attract _more_ attention, anyway. Instead, they casually strolled down the sidewalk, looking for all the world like a couple out for a walk. When they reached the house next to their target, they entered the backyard through the unlocked side gate as if they owned the place. Now came the time for stealth.

He boosted Amanda up into the tree that reached over the wall, just brushing the roof next door. She crossed over with as much skill and grace as any cat, her movements hidden by the dense foliage. Now hidden behind the house itself, she signaled Methos to make his move.

Methos quietly climbed over the wall and went for the back door. It had obviously been forced open, to judge by the damage to the door frame. He cautiously re-opened it wide enough to slip inside. The kitchen saw signs of use, with bowls and plates on the counter, waiting to be put through the wash; a child's artwork was attached by magnets to the refrigerator. Methos passed silently into the living room, observing the family photos on the walls and mantle: a husband and wife and young daughter, probably no more than nine or ten years old now. One of the photos was of the husband in the formal uniform of a U.S. Air Force enlisted man. Judging by the man's age the other photos, it hadn't been taken too long ago.

So, why would Sydyk be interested in this place? The daughter clearly showed a resemblance to both parents, so neither was an Immortal. Whatever Sydyk's plan, it was about to come to a crashing end. Carefully coming to the stairs, he bent an ear; he could hear movement upstairs, and nothing to indicate that Sydyk and his minions knew anything was afoot. Methos proceeded to the front door and quickly picked the deadbolt with Amanda's spare lockpicks. Then, with a grim smile, he loudly opened and shut the door.

"Honey, I'm home!" he all but shouted, flawlessly imitating a mid-western American accent. "I'll be in the kitchen!"

Grabbing a handy broom that was leaning against the wall, he slipped next to the staircase and fed the broom's handle across the steps. Sure enough, Sydyk's goons fell for it, quite literally. They weren't running down the stairs, but they weren't exactly paying attention to where they were putting their feet. Which is why they didn't see the broom handle in time to avoid it. He tripped up the last man, who then fell on top of the other two in front of him, sending them all tumbling down the remaining stairs in a jumbled mess of bruised limbs and heads.

Methos quickly yanked out the broom and expertly cracked all three across the skulls before they could even begin to get up off the floor.

He easily heard when Amanda made her move upstairs; he almost felt sorry for the family who lived here, but rationalized that they'd probably be more grateful that Sydyk and his pets were eliminated.

Searching a through a few drawers, he soon found some duct tape with which to secure his victims. Even if they managed to free themselves, it would be painful to get the sticky tape residue off of their wrists, legs, and faces. As he finished trussing them up, he realized that there was silence from upstairs. Frowning, he cautiously stepped over Sydyk's minions and moved up the stairs. He doubted he could have missed a quickening - they tended to result in quite a few blown out windows and small fires.

He could still sense the presence of an Immortal. Of course, he couldn't tell if it was Sydyk or Amanda. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out his gun and peeked into the first room with an open door.

Both Amanda and Sydyk were on the ground. Amanda lay on her back, staring blankly up at the ceiling, her hand holding her bloodied sword limply, but she had no visible injury and was still breathing. Sydyk was collapsed in a heap next to her, clutching at a crimson wound in his abdomen. There was nothing terrifying about him now; he just looked like pathetic old man, wounded and scared.

"Help," he moaned softly. "Someone help me!"

Methos frowned; something was very, very wrong here. He pushed the door open and stepped into the room. At that moment, Amanda sat up fluidly, and her eyes glowed with an unnatural gold light as she locked gazes with Methos.

"**Tanith**," she said accusingly, her voice weirdly deep and her expression utterly cold.


	32. Interlude: Echoes of a Future Past

_Approximately 2995 BC, in a tent in Ancient Egypt..._

Methos stared at the strange blue-eyed man, this Daniel, unsure whether or not he was quite as insane as he seemed.

"You say such fine words about hope, but you are leading everyone to their certain deaths." he demanded, his dark eyes flashing angrily. "You say that hope is a great weapon, but it can be used to terrible purpose, too, if that hope is false. This rebellion of yours is probably going to go just as well as your last attempt. How can one defeat a god?"

Surprisingly, Daniel didn't seem upset by the accusation. "Ra is _not_ a god," he replied emphatically. He seemed like he wanted to say more, but instead grimaced with clear frustration, settling on some other answer. "I wish I had some proof for you beyond my word, I really do."

"Speak then, and speak plainly, oh _wise one_!" Methos snapped sarcastically, impatient with Daniel's reticence. No matter when Daniel was born, he could not possibly be older than Methos, and Methos did not appreciate being treated like a child or an idiot. "If Ra is not a god, what is he, then? What true hope have any of those who follow you? The gods have been here for many thousands of years," he noted distrustingly. Ra had certainly ruled the world for as long as he could remember, after all, and that was rather longer than any mortal man had lived. "How could anyone live so long? Ask anyone here, and they would say it is through the power of their magic. Magic only a god might wield."

He was admittedly somewhat curious as to Daniel's answer; he had always imagined that the so-called gods could be like him, Immortal, but drunk on power and their own delusions of grandeur. Then again, he'd never been so foolish as to get close enough to test this supposition. Even as old as he was, he still valued his life too much.

"A man much wiser than me once said that any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic," the strange blue-eyed man replied, his lips twitching in the shadow of a smile. "They have devices to prolong life, to be sure, even to the point of apparent immortality, but at the cost of their sanity. Most of them are so far gone by now that even they are beginning to believe that they really _are_ gods." He trailed off, seemingly lost in a memory.

"The ones you are calling gods, are... not of this world," Daniel continued after a moment. He appeared to be struggling to find the right words to use, yet another reminder of his strange foreign origin.

Methos made a face. "What does _that_ mean?"

Again, Daniel seemed to pause to consider his words. "They are from another world, far from here. So far I couldn't even begin to tell you. Their pyramids sailed the skies between the stars, and they found this place. They came and took what they wanted, like any conqueror. Only it wasn't just gold or trinkets or minerals. They stole people's lives."

The blue-eyed man across from Methos had spoken with such a profound certainty and reason that he found that part of him actually _wanted_ to believe him, no matter how mad Daniel seemed. "How?"

"The Goa'uld-" Daniel, noted Methos, put a strange accent on the word, pronouncing it _goo-uld_ rather than _goa-oold_. For a man who spoke their language as well as he did, the pronunciation seemed deliberate, some sort of subtle insult. "-are like ticks, which attach themselves to their victims and feed off their blood. Parasites. But instead imagine a snake, burrowing into your neck, wrapping itself around your spine, and taking control of your body. You can see and hear everything happening around you, but you can't even so much as blink of your own will. That's what the Goa'uld are." The other man's face was set like stone. "They're many things_, but they are not gods_."

"Snakes. That burrow into your neck. And steal your body." Methos considered this for a long moment. "So... no magic?" he remarked wryly.

Now the blue-eyed man really did smile. "No magic."

Methos had never considered the possibility that the Goa'uld were freakish monsters from the skies. Then again, the whole idea seemed so outlandish as to be perfectly ludicrous. Nevertheless, there was a certain reason and logic to it, and Daniel, who Methos figured probably couldn't lie his way out of the tent they were in, definitely seemed to believe it. Of course, he could always be an utter lunatic, too.

Methos wondered if he'd ever find out the truth.

~o0o~

For a moment, Daniel imagined that he was having a conversation with Jack. Somehow, speaking with this remarkably perceptive fellow, whose name he didn't even know, had stirred up unexpectedly intense feelings of loss. It had been nearly five years since Ra had executed Jack, Sam, and Teal'c when their first attempt at rebellion had been put down, but now the old wound suddenly seemed as fresh as the day it happened.

_This time_, Daniel silently promised their spirits, wherever they were, _this time we'll do it right. _

"For a man who claims to be from the future, you sure seem to dwell in the past," the other man noted, his eyes narrowed. Daniel blinked, jarred from his reverie.

"That's what I get for being an archaeologist. Always daydreaming about something," he replied ruefully, if not exactly truthfully. For some reason, he wanted to tell this total stranger about Jack and the others. To tell him all about the future that they were trying to ensure. There was just something about him... so oddly familiar. As if they'd met before in a previous life. "You remind me of someone. Actually, several someones," he remarked pensively.

This elicited a strangely complicated expression from the other man. For a moment, he seemed surprised and bemused before his face settled into a complacent smirk. "Is that so?"

Now he finally placed the face. While this man's attitude was so very reminiscent of Jack O'Neill, his features eerily resembled poor doomed Hebron, the man who volunteered to be host to the Goa'uld Tanith in the mistaken belief that the symbiote would join the Tok'ra resistance against the Goa'uld. Of course, neither Hebron nor Tanith would be born for another five thousand years, and not even on this planet. He hadn't thought of Tanith in years. It seemed that the universe was playing one of its little jokes on him again.

"Oh, yes," Daniel replied, emotions warring within him. "I knew a man who looked just like you. Long ago in the future."

The man's smirk didn't change; clearly it was a mask of some sort, though what he was hiding Daniel couldn't begin to guess. "Really. Maybe we're distant cousins."

Daniel shrugged noncommittally. It was entirely possible there was some (very) distant relationship. The humans scattered throughout the galaxy, including Hebron's people, had originated on Earth, after all. But this guy seemed entirely too smug about _something_. "Oh, I sure hope not," the archaeologist retorted. "He was taken by a Goa'uld and was later killed by one of my friends."

A sour look crossed the other man's face, as if he'd just unexpectedly bit into a particularly strong lemon. "Dare I ask _how_ he was killed?"

"Cinderized by a very powerful Jaffa staff weapon." The al'kesh Tanith had been piloting then crashed into the ground. He was very, very dead. _Or, he _will_ be dead. In the future. _It was still strange to think of the future as the past, and vice versa.

"Danyer! Danyer!" interrupted a child's excited voice at the tent flap. The boy at the entrance was no more than ten years old, but scarred and damaged by the cruel, careless execution of his parents by Ra's Jaffa. He'd been more or less adopted by Daniel's greatest ally and friend here, a young man named Katep, who reminded Daniel somewhat of Skaara and the boys from Abydos, though he was older and less reckless than they were.

"What is it?" Daniel asked, wondering what could bring this boy to him with such excitement, yet not fear. It couldn't be a Jaffa patrol; he'd be terrified.

"Katep told me to find you and tell you three people have arrived in the camp," the child explained, his eyes wide. "He said for you to go to the big tent at once. He said it's _urgent_."

The 'big tent' was code for the tent which stood over their hidden arsenal of weapons. And anything Katep said was _urgent_ had to be about the rebellion. "Please excuse me," he apologized vaguely as he pulled himself to his feet. "I hope that we can continue this conversation another time."

"Oh, I look forward to that," replied the familiar stranger, his face now a mask of indifference belying his words.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: Several notes for your edification and delight, before we return to Methos and Amanda/Sydyk in the next chapter!

The end of this interlude chapter, of course, coincides with the arrival of the alternate Jack, Sam, and Teal'c during the _SG-1_ season 8 finale, "Moebius, Part II."

To be clear, Daniel is referring to Hebron/Tanith when he says that Methos reminds him of someone who looked just like him. Methos thinks, incorrectly, that Daniel might have met Methos at some point in the future and is most annoyed to learn about "his" infestation and death (at the beginning of episode 5.14, "48 Hours").

I can't imagine a linguist like Daniel Jackson would mispronounce "Goa'uld" by accident. Since the word itself means "god," it might be his way of de-deifying them.

The bit Daniel quotes about technology and magic is British writer Arthur C. Clarke's Third Law.


	33. The Best Laid Plans

_Tanith? _

Methos really wanted to know who the blazes this Tanith person was, and why he he had the indecency to apparently be Methos's doppelganger. But, more urgently, he _needed _to know what had happened to Amanda. This was no Dark Quickening. Something else entirely was looking back at him through Amanda's eyes.

Amanda - or whatever she was now - stood up fluidly, not taking her gaze off him. Her face was set with a scornful haughtiness, disgust verging on hatred distorting her beautiful features. "**You should be dead, Tanith,"** she spat in that weird voice. "**And yet, here you are, living among the Tau'ri. What you give them in exchange for your life, **_**shol'va**_**?"**

"_Shol'va_, yourself - I gave them _nothing_," he retorted harshly, his mind reeling as he scrambled to formulate some sort of plan. Daniel Jackson believed Tanith to be dead, too - he'd said as much when they first bumped into each other at the cafe. It seemed a lifetime ago already. "They don't even know I'm alive."

"**How lucky for you, then, that you abandoned your master before his downfall. And before the fall of the rest of the System Lords." **She sneered at him, clearly not believing his claim. "**You expect me to believe that it is mere coincidence that you live in **_**peace**_ **while the Goa'uld, who ruled this galaxy for thousands of years, must now hide in any wretched corner of their former domains they have left to them?"**

The Goa'uld.

The _Goa'uld_?! Methos shot a quick glance at the old man on the floor, who was panting weakly, his face red and blotchy and his hands stained crimson with blood as he pressed against the wound Amanda had inflicted. The old man's eyes stared back at him in terrified recognition, no longer pleading for help.

_...a snake, burrowing into your neck, wrapping itself around your spine, and taking control of your body. You can see and hear everything happening around you, but you can't even so much as blink of your own will. That's what the Goa'uld are..._

A searing revelation burned through Methos. From the start, Sydyk had never been an Immortal. Sydyk was a parasite, a monster wrapped around Amanda's spine and pulling her strings like a puppet. And the man Amanda had been hunting, he'd been a victim of Sydyk, too, unable to control his actions any more than Amanda could, now.

Methos looked back at Amanda and composed his features into an arrogant smirk. "Believe whatever you like, Sydyk. I was always a pragmatist."

The expression on Amanda's face didn't falter. "**Yes, you were, weren't you? When Apophis was destroyed by the Tau'ri, you immediately kissed the robe of Anubis. And then you abandoned him before he vanished. Both the Tau'ri and the System Lords thought the **_**shol'va**_ **Teal'c had finally had his revenge upon you for murdering his precious lover Shau'nac."**

Methos decided he really didn't like his doppelganger. If Tanith weren't already dead, Methos would probably have felt compelled to track him down and kill him himself. "I'm not that easy to kill, even by one so motivated."

"**Obviously," **Sydyk voice dripped sarcasm. "**Even the **_**shol'va **_**thought he killed you with that staff weapon. How **_**did**_ **you escape, then?"**

_I knew a man who looked just like you... He was taken by a Goa'uld and was later killed by one of my friends... Cinderized by a very powerful Jaffa staff weapon._

"Only someone monumentally stupid would reveal all his secrets," he drawled to cover up the fact that he really had no idea of the circumstances of Tanith's demise, other than those few words from five thousand years ago. And putting Sydyk on the defensive would give him a bit more time. "And, speaking of stupid, how idiotic are you, anyway? What were you thinking to accomplish by coming here?"

Amanda's eyes flashed gold again. "**I would have been off this miserable rock by this time tomorrow if this fool female hadn't interfered,**" Sydyk snarled.

Methos kept a wary eye on Amanda's sword, still loosely grasped in her hand as she paced back and forth in obvious frustration. Daniel had said, ever so long ago, that the parasite burrowed into the host's neck. Unfortunately, that was the one place he could not strike an Immortal. And he had no idea if simply killing her would kill the parasite. He needed time.

"**The one who lives here is one of those pathetic wretches from the mountain,"** the Goa'uld continued, almost as if it were truly desperate to vent its frustration to someone, anyone, who would listen. "**It would have been ****_so easy_**** to take him as a host here, where he is most vulnerable. Then it would be a simple matter of pretending to be him for a few hours before walking through the Chappa'ai."**

The Chappa'ai. Daniel Jackson and his secret project. Black ops military types. Cheyenne Mountain. Of all the ridiculous, unlikely scenarios. The United States military _had the bloody Stargate_! It didn't go so far as to explain the apparent time travel, but it made the possibility a lot less absurd. Daniel and his friends really had been busy, hadn't they?

"Yes, well, you certainly mucked things up for _me_ with your little 'house cleaning' back in Washington." He ignored the acrid taste in his mouth as he injected what he hoped was a suitable amount of arrogance into his voice. Strange; he really _had_ changed in the last few years. "You might as well have put up a sign a mile tall with flashing lights that read 'A Goa'uld was here'! Did you think no one would notice? Did you think Daniel Jackson and his friends are completely oblivious?!"

His shot in the dark with the name-drop seriously ticked off the Goa'uld, and rather a bit more than he anticipated. Methos was certain that if it was capable of killing him with a look, he'd have been melted into goo in a heartbeat. Instead, she lashed out wildly at him with the sword. He nimbly dodged out of the way, backing out into the hall.

"_**Go'tak**_**! Daniel Jackson should have his intestines pulled out through his nostrils, while those he loves are forced to watch," **the parasite hissed furiously as she stalked towards him. Well, at least he confirmed they knew each other. "_**Daniel Jackson**_ **is responsible for me being stuck on this wretched planet!"**

"_Daniel Jackson_ is going to be responsible for your _death_ if you don't shut up and leave this place," Methos retorted. If this snake was representative of the species, they sure loved to rant, didn't they? In any case, he had no intention of allowing Sydyk to infest the airman who lived here. Methos might not particularly like, let alone _trust_, Daniel Jackson or his little super-secret black ops group, but no one deserved that fate.

"**What do you mean?" **Sydyk demanded, the sword wavering slightly.

"The woman you took? She was following you on his orders." A total lie, but Sydyk had no way of verifying it, at least so far as Methos could tell. If the parasite could read Amanda's thoughts, it would have known instantly that Methos was not Tanith. "They've been hunting for you since you eliminated your excess worshipers a few days back."

* * *

><p>General Landry stared at the blurry photo in the file Daniel had given him. "You're sure it's him? This isn't exactly Ansel Adams-level work here. And that Goa'uld-finding computer program of yours didn't exactly help us find Ba'al when <em>he<em> was hiding out here."

Daniel made a moue of exasperation. "Yes, but Ba'al couldn't exactly be described as behaving in a typically Goa'uld manner. And _this_ incident is almost _exactly_ like something from the Goa'uld playbook."

"Okay, let's assume for the moment that you're right. What would have made him clean house?" the general asked, his tone grave.

"Well, the Feds were going to get involved," Daniel theorized, running a hand through his hair. "They'd have better equipment than the locals, and it wouldn't take more than five minutes after they set up shop for them to see exactly the same thing I did. After that, how long do you think it'd take for it to get back to _us_?"

"I'm guessing not all that long," Landry replied dryly. "Does the FBI have any idea where he went?"

The archaeologist smiled twistedly; the FBI had no clue what they were _really_ dealing with, after all. "They're guessing that he's kicking back on some tropical island without an extradition treaty."

Landry raised his formidably bushy eyebrows. "And what do _you_ think, Doctor Jackson?"

"Well, the Goa'uld probably isn't thrilled to have been stuck here so long. And now, having to abandon his cozy little cult, he's probably going to be looking for a way to get off Earth," Daniel suggested.

The general immediately saw where Daniel's mind was going. "You mean, he's coming here?"

"He's coming here."


	34. Exposed

The Goa'uld stared at Methos in shock and confusion. "**This female is one of **_**them**_**? How did I not sense it? How do I... I..." **The expression on Amanda's face grew more intense, her eyes darting this way and that. "**I cannot access this host's memories," **Sydyk finally said, clearly agitated and disturbed. "**She is hiding them from me somehow."**

Methos carefully hid his profound relief, which rolled over him like a wave. Somewhere in there, Amanda was fighting. Even though she couldn't so much as bat an eyelid, Amanda was fighting, and successfully, it seemed. "We'll figure it out later," Methos replied in a level tone. "First, we have to leave, before we're both caught here. I, for one, have no desire to die today, especially not at the hands of Daniel Jackson."

Suddenly, they heard a high-pitched shriek from downstairs, followed by a child's fearful cry. Methos swore a blue streak under his breath - the airman's wife and daughter had come home and found Sydyk's gift-wrapped henchmen downstairs. Sydyk snarled out a harsh, multisyllabic curse - then charged towards the staircase Methos was blocking, sword held high.

Methos responded by punching Amanda in the face and twisting the sword out of her hand. He yanked her forcefully back towards the room they had previously been occupying. "I'm not letting you get me killed!" he snapped as he shut the door behind them. "It's time for a new plan. Get out that window and use the tree branches to climb to the next yard."

Sydyk's eyes flashed in fury. "**How dare you-"**

"Shut up, Sydyk." Methos raised Amanda's sword; it was slimmer and lighter than his Ivanhoe, but its blade, he would bet his neck, was just as sharp. "Or I'll kill you myself."

The parasite glared at him, but decided correctly that Methos's threat was anything but empty. Sydyk turned towards the window and climbed out without further argument. Methos shot a last glance towards Sydyk's former host, whose face had gone pale from the blood loss. The old man tried weakly to pull back as Methos knelt next to him.

"Stop it," Methos said curtly, glancing over the wound in his abdomen with a physician's eye. "You should survive if you get medical treatment," he said briefly. Unfortunately, he had no time to administer such aid, himself. He grabbed a folded sheet from the top of a nearby dresser and placed it under the old man's trembling hands to help contain the bleeding. "I'm sorry."

Words he rarely spoke. This time, however, he meant it with his whole heart. No one deserved to suffer the way this old man had, helpless plaything of an evil parasite.

The man stared at him as if Methos had suddenly grown a second head. The Immortal couldn't tarry any longer; he climbed out the window after Sydyk.

~o0o~

Daniel and General Landry sat in silence for several long moments, absorbing the implications of Daniel's conclusion.

"What do you think Sydyk's going to do when he gets here?" the general asked finally, his expression deeply pensive. Everyday, the SGC faced threats through the Stargate, or from orbit. Coming up against one already on planet Earth was something every one of them feared profoundly.

Each time something like this happened, it meant so much more, struck that much deeper. The Ori plague, NID plots and Trust infiltration, Ba'al hiding out and sending terrorist threats, Richard Poole's homemade Replicator causing havoc, even Kinsey's self-centered political machinations that could have resulted in the destruction of the planet. (Daniel still loathed the man, even now.)

"Well, in my opinion, his best bet would be to try to jump hosts," Daniel suggested in a matter-of-fact tone that belied the gravity of his statement.

"You mean, take over one of our people, then simply waltz through the Gate or hop a flight out of here."

Such easy words to describe such a horrific fate. For a moment, Daniel remembered Sha're, ripped from their home on Abydos and infested by the Goa'uld queen Amonet. And her brother Skaara, taken in the same raid and enslaved to the whims of Apophis's spawn Klorel. And Kawalsky, a man who Daniel considered a friend, spending those hours in terror as he knew that the creature inside him was slowly taking control of his body.

Taking a breath, the archaeologist grimly nodded. "We always check people when they come _back _from a mission. Not nearly as much when they're _leaving _on a mission."

An urgent, almost frantic knocking sounded at the door. "Come in," Landry said.

The door immediately swung open, revealing a pale, wide-eyed Sergeant Simon Wells, panting and breathless. "Sir," he began. "My wife just called, she said that there are men in our house."

"You don't think-" Daniel stared at Landry in rising horror. Could it be Sydyk was already here?

"Go," the general ordered immediately. "I'll get things rolling."

Daniel dashed out the door, Wells less than a breath behind him.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **"Richard Poole and his homemade Replicator" appeared in the fourth-season _Stargate: Atlantis_ episode "Outcast." There were actually two Replicators, but only one of them was hostile. Colonel Sheppard and his team destroyed it by transporting it into a low orbit, where it burned up upon entry into the atmosphere.

Also, some of you may have noticed that I've updated a few of the early chapters from this story. They're now much longer than they used to be! It's a bit difficult, since I'm limited by what follows in the subsequent chapters, but hopefully there will be that much more for you to enjoy! The updates include a few clarifications, corrections, and definitely a lot more in the way of the characters' thoughts about their situation! I will hopefully continue to update the earlier chapters while also adding on to end of the story.


	35. Closing In

Tucking Amanda's sword securely against his arm, Methos swiftly stepped from the roof to the obscuring, arching tree branch. While his crossing was not as cat-like in its grace as Amanda, he managed it quite easily. The airman who lived here really should get his neighbor to cut back the tree; not only did it allow convenient access to the second floor, it was a rather dangerous fire hazard.

He spotted Sydyk in the neighboring yard, pacing back and forth with all the body language of fear and anxiety. _Not so superior as it liked to believe, eh?_ Methos felt a sliver of satisfaction; clearly, the circumstances had definitely thrown the parasite. That would make controlling and manipulating it easier, for the moment, anyway. He'd have to be very, very careful. Death (and various fates worse) lurked on either side of his current tightrope.

And plainly speaking, Methos wanted to live.

He leaped lightly out of the tree, startling Sydyk, who put back on the mask of anger and arrogance.

"Now, listen up, Sydyk," Methos ordered harshly. "You will do what I say, when I say, and maybe we'll both get out of here alive. You _do_ want to live, yes?"

The Goa'uld's expression hardened, fists clenching in anger. "**Yes**," it replied tightly after a long moment. "**I want to live. Lead on... my lord.**"

"First off, I shouldn't have to tell you not to use that voice. For the moment, we're just a concerned human couple who have no idea what is going on." How he wished that were so, the sweet bliss of ignorance. Methos would have been so much happier had he never come to Colorado Springs, had he never even seen Daniel Jackson in the café. But that was water under the bridge, and he was hardly one to waste time in bemoaning circumstances.

"...As you wish," Sydyk replied, now using Amanda's voice and schooling her face into what it no doubt thought was a suitably blank expression. With a sigh, Methos clipped Amanda's sword to the spare hook inside his coat, on the opposite side from his Ivanhoe. There was no way he'd be giving the weapon back to the Goa'uld.

"Now, follow my lead. And let me do the talking unless absolutely necessary." He took Amanda's hand and pulled her towards the gate, stepping out just in time to see the first police car pull around the corner. The white and blue cruiser stopped several doors down, and Methos rushed towards it, all but dragging Sydyk after him.

"What are you doing?" the Goa'uld hissed.

"Shut up," Methos ordered _sotto voce _as the officer in the car stepped out, hand on the sidearm at his belt, but not yet drawing it. "Thank God you got here, officer!" Methos said breathlessly, once again feigning an American accent. "We heard a scream from that house over there, and fighting, and I think someone might be hurt!" He widened his eyes in false fear. Well, not entirely false. Some tiny corner of his mind was practically gibbering in panic at this whole horrifying mess, but he carefully locked that bit of him away.

The bluff worked flawlessly. The cop, a terribly young one at that, completely fell for it, his body tensing with anticipation. "Okay, I'm gonna have to ask you two to stay well back, for your safety, until we check things out."

Methos nodded emphatically. "Don't worry, officer, we won't get in your way," he assured the other man. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two more police cruisers approaching from the opposite direction. Amanda's nails were digging into his hand, but fortunately she said nothing.

By now, the officer's attention was almost fully on the airman's house, though he made no attempt to approach it - he was, however, already talking on his radio. Had the police been told not to enter the house, warned off by Daniel's friends? If that were the case, Methos's erstwhile kidnappers might already be on their way here, and it wasn't all that far from Cheyenne Mountain, especially when motivated...

"Come on, _dear_, let's go," Methos said to Sydyk, guiding the Goa'uld towards his car.

~o0o~

The drive to Simon Wells's house seemed to take an eternity, though it really wasn't all that long. Daniel sat next to the man, whose face was pale and drawn, though he had been assured that his wife and daughter were fine. Marci had grabbed Janet, thrown her back into the car, and were now waiting at Colonel Dixon's home with his wife Lainie, who no doubt was standing over them with a 9-mil and a shotgun in easy reach.

Dixon himself sat on Wells's other side, his 'colonel' mask well in place. Daniel knew, though, that the man was downright furious and frightened for Simon's sake. He was a good man, an excellent husband and father, if somewhat sarcastic and acerbic at times - Daniel sometimes thought Jack would've been a lot like him if Charlie hadn't died.

Opposite them was Airman Malcolm McCaffrey - he was almost as stony-faced as his commanding officer. McCaffrey, who replaced Jake Bosworth when he transferred to SG-3, had once briefly been possessed by Anubis; he had at one point confessed to Daniel that he still had nightmares about the incident on occasion, though time had eased it a lot. (Daniel's own nightmares were far more varied in content.)

The rest of the truck was filled with familiar faces of Marines and SFs from the SGC, though Daniel didn't know most of their names. They all seemed understandably tense.

Hopefully, none of the Colorado Springs police officers had attempted to enter the house yet. A cop confronting a Goa'uld was a recipe for disaster. They had been ordered to create a perimeter and wait for their arrival.

The lead police officer, a stringy sergeant whose name plate read _L. Lee_, met them as soon as the truck stopped. Curious bystanders were being hurried along by the cops as the SG personnel climbed out.

"Colonel Dixon, Air Force. Can I get a sitrep, Sergeant?" Dixon asked the police sergeant, Marines and SFs swarming around them. Daniel stood by, not interfering, merely waiting and observing. Dixon had far more authority here than he did, anyway.

"We've been on scene for ten minutes, the perimeter's been established. No one's come out of the house, but we think they're still in there. We've already evacuated surrounding residences," Lee replied, gesturing towards the other homes. "If I may ask, what's this all about? Why's the Air Force involved?"

Dixon's expression darkened, but was ready with their cover story, which was actually not too far from the truth. For once. "The men in there are dangerous terrorists, killed a lot of people a few states over not too long ago."

Lee raised his eyebrows in shock. "Wait, are you talking about that cult leader from Washington State? Doesn't that make this an FBI matter?"

"Normally, yes, but these guys have got their hands on some very dangerous, very classified weapons, and normal folks like the Feebs'd just get hurt or killed," the colonel retorted impatiently. "Now, keep your men back and let us do our job."

"Excuse me, sir-" interrupted one of the cops, a tall, earnest-looking looking fellow who probably wasn't a day over 22.

"Yeah, what is it... Ayers?" Dixon glowered at the man, his eyes only glancing at his nameplate.

"I arrived on scene first, and a couple told me that there might be someone hurt inside," the cop said, unintimidated by the stare. "They said they heard a scream and fighting, too."

Daniel frowned as Dixon thanked the man for the intel. Were the men that Marci had seen tied up Sydyk's 'high priests'? If so, who had fought and tied them up? Something, _something_, was seriously off here. But even as he pondered this question, the SFs and Marines surrounded the house, to a man their faces tense set with anticipation. Daniel silently joined them, drawing his sidearm cautiously.

Dixon and Wells stood at the door, and Wells opened it a crack and peeked inside. A moment later, he signalled for three men down. The colonel shared a glance with Wells, and then issued the silent order for the troops to move in**.**

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: The bit about possession by Anubis occurred during episode 8.03, "Lockdown," when a bodiless Anubis was floating around the SGC taking people over. McCaffrey ended up getting zatted by O'Neill, prompting Anubis to leave him. Daniel was also possessed by Anubis during this episode.


	36. Desperate Times

Airman Wells quickly shoved his way through the front door as the other members of the team entered through the back, the only sound coming from their boots softly impacting on the floor. Daniel felt a strangely eerie sensation as he followed behind them.

He immediately spotted the three men trussed up by the stairs. Pulling out his phone with his off-hand, he flipped it to the FBI file photos of Sydyk and his men and immediately recognized them as Sydyk's "high priests".

He showed the pictures to the colonel, who gave the signal for "hostiles" to his men.

Fortunately, the unconscious men showed no signs of waking up, and someone had thoughtfully already gift-wrapped them in a truly impressive amount of duct tape. They all sported some impressively lurid developing bruises in distinct black and blue on their heads, as well. Daniel grimly noted some drying blood and hair caught on the handle of a broom leaning against the wall next to them, no doubt the weapon used to render them into their current state.

With a Marine covering the prisoners, Wells silently led the way up the stairs, his P-90 raised at readiness and his face set like stone. Colonel Dixon stepped cautiously behind him, followed by Daniel and the others.

As the reached the first door, Wells paused and knelt. He pulled out a mirror, which he used to peek around the corner. _One man down_, he signaled, returning the mirror to his vest pocket.

A weak cough and a moan came from inside the room. Dixon signed for Wells and the rest of the team to check the other rooms. Daniel indicated that he would cover Dixon as he entered the room.

It was Janet's bedroom, Daniel realized with a chill. A vase had been knocked from the nightstand; its shards were carelessly scattered across the floor, along with the trampled flowers it had once contained. The spilled water mingled with the blood dripping from the fallen man, who now lay crumpled against the wall between the little girl's bed and the nightstand, which had been shoved to the side. His bloody hand prints stained the nightstand and Janet's bedspread.

He was weakly clutching a folded sheet to his abdomen, trying to staunch the blood oozing from whatever injury he had received. Barely conscious, he blinked blearily up at Daniel and Dixon with an expression of… was that relief?

"We're clear, Colonel. No one else here," reported Wells as he coldly eyed the fallen man. The younger airman swallowed in an anger that was only now starting to overcome the fear.

"Never thought I'd see _him_ again," Daniel remarked, his gun not wavering an inch from its aim on Sydyk's host – a man he had recognized oh-so-quickly.

"I'd rather not have seen him _at all_," Dixon retorted. "Let's get him contained. Wouldn't want a snakehead jumping up and ruining my day."

Former Vice President, self-serving bastard, and finally Goa'uld host Robert Kinsey stared at them, his lips twitching. Even before he had been taken by a Goa'uld, he had very nearly succeeded in getting the world destroyed with his petty political games and power-mongering. Now, he was reduced to a sad, pathetic heap on floor.

"Gone," he rasped weakly.

"What was that? Didn't quite make that out." Colonel Dixon snorted in disgust. "Wells, get those SOBs downstairs rolled out to the trucks."

"With pleasure, sir," the airman acknowledged, turning on his heel and leaving the room. It was almost certainly for the best to send Wells off rather than leave him in the same room as the monster that threatened his little girl.

"It's _gone_," Kinsey repeated, his fingers spasming on the bloody sheet. A tear trickled slowly down his pale cheek. He locked eyes with Daniel.

Daniel blinked, finally realizing what the man was trying to say. It suddenly made sense. "Uh, Colonel, I think he's trying to say that the Goa'uld left him. It's gone."

"What?! Damn. McCaffrey! Get your favorite toy in here!" the colonel shouted over his shoulder without removing his eyes on the bleeding Kinsey. He certainly wasn't going to take Kinsey's word that the Goa'uld was gone.

"Right here, sir," Airman McCaffrey replied, his boots heavy on the floorboards as he rushed in. Reaching into his vest, he extracted what turned out to be an Ancient life signs detector, doubtless courtesy of Atlantis. McCaffrey held out the small device and frowned in concentration. "Only one life sign, sir. Snake's gone," he reported, staring at the readout on the screen.

Colonel Dixon swore again, this time with enough color to make the Navy proud. "Okay, boys, let's get this bastard outta here before he bleeds to death. Let's move! And keep your eye out for a stray snake!"

Within minutes, Kinsey was loaded up for transport, tended by the hard-eyed SCG field medics sent on by General Landry immediately behind the initial team. Daniel stared thoughtfully after them as they drove away through a gap in the growing crowd of spectators.

"Colonel, you know that the Goa'uld jumped ship and is now in whoever overpowered Sydyk and his men," he said in a quiet aside, folding his arms across his chest.

"Yeah, I know," Dixon agreed, clearly unhappy. "Wish I knew who that person _was_."

"Well, we know it wasn't one of Sydyk's goons – all of them were duct-taped at the bottom of the stairs," Daniel observed. "Those three plus Kinsey makes all of them accounted for."

"Maybe someone followed him from Seattle. Took revenge for the mess there only to find out the hard way Sydyk was a body-snatching snake."

"Makes sense to me. In any case, we have to find out who Sydyk has now, and where he's gone," Daniel pointed out, running his hand through his hair. "He knows that we'll be looking for him."

Colonel Dixon grunted his agreement. "I'll talk with the cops. Maybe they saw something before we got here."

* * *

><p>Everything had gone to hell in a handbasket.<p>

Even with the _immediate_ danger past, Methos felt far from secure driving his car with a Goa'uld sitting in the passenger seat. Especially since that Goa'uld was now controlling his friend.

Silently, he urged Amanda to keep fighting, to keep her memories out of the hands of the snake.

His first priority was getting somewhere safe, somewhere he could have the time to find a way to kill the Goa'uld or get it out of her, and without getting infested himself.

He suspected that knocking her unconscious and surgically removing the creature was out of the question. While he certainly had the medical skill to perform the task, he had no way of knowing if drugs would affect Amanda in her current condition, combining her Immortality with a Goa'uld parasite. Furthermore, he would have only one opportunity to knock her out, and if it _didn't_ work he'd be in a world of trouble. A Goa'uld with an Immortal host... he didn't dare start worrying about the implications of that particular train of thought.

He could try killing her and hope that the parasite would die before she revived, but, again, he'd only have one shot at it. Its placement in her body was problematic, as he didn't want to cause her permanent damage if he could avoid it. He actually liked Amanda.

That being said, Methos would be more than willing to take his Ivanhoe to Amanda's lovely neck if he had to. He would not let the parasite escape, especially if it discovered the truth about its new host.

What was truly crippling him at the moment was his lack of concrete knowledge about the Goa'uld. Unfortunately, there was only one person he knew that might be able to supply that information: Daniel Jackson.

Knowing Amanda, she'd probably picked up his phone number in the hopes of a little romantic rendezvous when they were finished hunting down Sydyk, so contacting Daniel wasn't the problem.

No, no, no, the problems lay elsewhere.

Like, for instance, the fact that Methos was supposed to be _dead_. Given that Daniel had _seen his corpse_, it would be rather difficult to explain how he was still alive and kicking; this would naturally give rise to a whole slew of questions Methos was not going to answer.

Plus there was the minor little question about how _Amanda_ came to be infested by the parasite in the first place.

No, the potential for disaster was just too great in that direction, and Methos certainly had no intention of letting agents of the American government know of the existence of Immortals.

And he still had to worry about Sydyk, as well. The creature hadn't exactly come with him willingly, and it could _not_ be trusted. He could feel Amanda's eyes boring furious holes into the side of his head.

And even Methos needed to sleep at some point; it wasn't as if the past couple of nights had been particularly restful, and he was beginning to feel the toll. The snake would probably try to kill him and escape as soon as it saw the opportunity.

The signal ahead of him turned red. As he drew the car to a stop at the limitline, a new Buzz filled his mind, the tell-tale sign of yet another Immortal nearby.

Methos suppressed the numerous unhelpful curses that abruptly sprang to mind.


	37. Ships Passing in the Night

"Who else is here?!" demanded Sydyk from the seat next to him, eyes blazing angrily.

"I don't know, so shut up!" Methos snapped, trying to identify the source of the Buzz.

_There._

Across the intersection, facing the opposite direction, a black SUV with federal government plates.

"It must be that _shol'va_ Teal'c! Their pet Jaffa is the only one to live on this wretched planet," Sydyk declared, before glaring in confusion. "No. He has no symbiote now. It cannot be him. Tok'ra! They have fetched one of the vile Tok'ra here!"

Methos could not see into the vehicle; the light was against him. Whoever was in the government SUV was definitely Immortal, not Goa'uld or Tok'ra (whatever that was), though for some reason Sydyk didn't seem to be able to sense the difference between them. A question definitely left for later.

He didn't have time for this. And he most certainly wasn't in the position to fight off a head-hunter and keep a handle on Sydyk at the same time. It occurred to him, furthermore, that there was a better than even chance that whoever was here might well be after the same thing Amanda had been: Sydyk's head.

The light turned green.

As the two cars passed each other in the intersection, Methos glanced at the driver of the SUV out of the corner of his eye, reading to hit the gas if necessary.

He didn't immediately recognize the other Immortal; the Immortal was dressed like any government stooge, his suit and tie complemented with a sword-concealing trench coat (which was doubtless just as warm in this weather as Methos's coat). Short dark hair framed level brows, and a chiseled chin. Whoever he was, though, he didn't seem interested in Methos and Amanda, because he spared them just a brief look himself before continuing on wherever he was intent on going.

The dismissal wasn't exactly a relief. Colorado Springs was quickly becoming Immortal Central, thanks to the very public brutality of Sydyk's crime. Methos silently cursed Sydyk for showing up here when he did. He had no desire to deal with a string of headhunting Immortals who were eager either for justice or an obvious Quickening; when they discovered that they were cheated of their prey, they very well might decide to take the head of any old Immortal they came across.

One day. One more day! And Methos would have been out of this city and shaking the dust from his feet.

Meanwhile, Amanda's face had taken on a puzzled expression.

"Why did he not attempt to stop us?" Sydyk asked in confusion. "He knew we were here and did nothing."

"Maybe he had more important things on his mind," Methos replied. "Like _you_ should. Do you honestly believe that Daniel Jackson and his friends will just let you leave this city?"

"They do not know I have taken this body as a host," the Goa'uld sneered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I think _you_ are in greater danger than I am, miserable worm."

"Ah, but they think I'm dead. They don't even know to look for me," Methos pointed out. It was true, too. After a fashion. In any event, he couldn't wait to kill this snake, because it was downright annoying. And even a bit whiny, now that he thought about it. Were all Goa'uld like this, or was Sydyk just special?

"One day, I will take my revenge on Daniel Jackson and this entire pathetic planet." Sydyk settled back in the seat sullenly.

"Fine. But that day is not going to be today, so just shut up and let me drive!"

* * *

><p>As Colonel Dixon spoke with the Colorado Springs police officers, Airman McCaffrey surreptitiously used his lifesigns detector to see if any of them were hiding a snakey little secret.<p>

To judge by the expression on McCaffrey's face, the search for Sydyk wasn't going well. He gave Daniel a subtle shake of his head as he slipped the small device back into his vest.

On the one hand, it was good that some innocent cop hadn't been taken by a Goa'uld. On the other, it meant that Sydyk could be anywhere – and anyone – by now, leaving them right back where they were when this whole mess started, with a dangerous and utterly ruthless Goa'uld on the loose. At least they knew he was out there, which was something. It was possible, too, that they might be able to learn something useful from Sydyk's lackeys… when they woke up, that is.

Even Kinsey may have something to say, as well, once he was in a condition to speak. Whether it would be useful or not? That was the real question. The man was an utter bastard before being taken by a Goa'uld, and it remained to be seen whether his years of utter helplessness in his own body had changed him.

"Hey, Doc," Colonel Dixon waved Daniel over. He was looming over the nervous young police officer, Ayres, who had been the first to arrive at the scene. "Tell the good doc what you told me, kid."

Ayres swallowed, obviously wishing he were anywhere but here at the moment. "Um. When I uh, first arrived at the scene, two subjects came from next door and told me that they'd heard fighting and that someone might be hurt."

Daniel's eyebrows shot up. This was definitely something. "Wait, you saw two people? Together? And they came from the house next to this one?"

"Yes, sir," the officer replied, his eyes darting back and forth between Daniel and the colonel. "A male and a female, both white and late twenties to early thirties, maybe."

Colonel Dixon snorted derisively. "I've been over here a few times. Couple that lives in that house? Both in their 70s. They're probably at their Jazzercize class right now."

Daniel crossed his arms, frowning slightly in thought. "Anything else you can tell us about these people?" he asked.

"Uh, the male subject was about six foot, dark brown hair. Female was pretty tall, maybe five-ten, also dark brown hair, cut short. Seemed upset about something. It was weird, too…"

"Don't stop now, Ayres, you're on a roll." Dixon, unsurprisingly, was not taking the loss of Sydyk very well. Definitely a good thing that Wells had been sent back to the SGC with the prisoners that had been so thoroughly duct-taped up like so many drunken college frat boys.

"They were both wearing coats. Like, long coats. It didn't occur to me at the time, but it's a little bit warm for that. My dash cam may have caught them…" He gestured apologetically towards the camera mounted inside his vehicle.

"Let's see the video, then," Dixon grunted.

The officer sat down in the driver's seat of his police cruiser and pulled over a laptop computer that was mounted between the front seats. He tapped away at the keyboard for a few seconds before the video appeared. Ayres clicked back a few more times and pressed the play button.

On the screen, the video showed the view from the cruiser as it approached the house.

"There." Daniel stabbed towards the very corner of the screen, where for a brief moment two indistinct, blurry figures were visible coming out of the side yard before the cruiser's movement left them out of the frame of view.

There was something said faintly, too distantly to be picked up by the audio. Then, more clearly: _"...might be hurt!"_

Daniel frowned intently, though the two people never stepped into full view of the camera.

_"Okay, I'm gonna have to ask you two to stay well back, for your safety, until we check things out,"_ Ayres said on the recording.

_"Don't worry, Officer, we won't get in your way,"_ the mystery voice replied. The voice was male, the accent fairly-generic midwestern American, but there was just something about it...

Daniel had a strange feeling that he'd heard that voice before. Somewhere. "I'd like a copy of this, Officer," he said distractedly.

"Sure thing, sir. Just let me clear it with my sergeant…"

"You still here, Ayres?" Colonel Dixon demanded impatiently. The young officer all but scampered away. "You got something, Doc?"

"I don't know. The voice sounds familiar. Maybe I'm imagining it." Daniel wracked his brain. There was _something_ about that voice!

"Well, you better make sure, Doc, 'cause we need to find these two pronto."


	38. No Time to Lose

The black SUV with its government plates was almost lost behind the gathering crowd, but Colonel Dixon spotted it right away. The man who got out of the vehicle passed through the spectators as smoothly as a fish through the water and held up a badge to the police officers guarding the perimeter.

"Great. Who's this guy?" Dixon grumbled. "Looks like a Feebie."

"Feebie?" Daniel asked, glancing over at the man in question. The term definitely didn't sound like one of endearment.

"FBI agent. Just what we need."

The police officers pointed in their direction and allowed the suit and tie-clad man past. Daniel conceded that the man did look like an FBI agent. He was even wearing a trench coat to add to the overall effect, despite the fact that it was a bit warm. What was it with people and long coats today?

"You in charge here? I'm Special Agent Matthew McCormick, FBI," the man addressed Colonel Dixon in a strong Southern drawl as he held up his credentials for them to inspect. Daniel was more interested in the man holding the badge, however; this could only be the agent who wrote the report on Sydyk's handiwork in Washington.

McCormick was a bit above average height, maybe a hair shorter than Daniel himself, with dark hair and strong features. And while he to all appearances appeared to be younger than Daniel by a few years at least, he projected a confidence of an veteran with decades under his belt.

"Colonel Dixon, United States Air Force. This here is Dr. Daniel Jackson," the colonel introduced themselves bluntly, not recognizing the agent. "What's the FBI doing at our scene?"

"I've been tracking the leader of a cult all the way from the Seattle area. You might know him by the name Sydyk. Colorado Springs PD answered the federal BOLO, said he might be here. Judging by the ruckus going on, I'd say they were right," Agent McCormick replied dryly, slipping the credentials back into his jacket pocket. "If you have my suspect in custody, I'd like him back now. He's got a lot to answer for back in Washington."

"Ah…" Daniel interrupted before Colonel Dixon could say anything. "You must be the case agent from Washington. I read your report. How much do you know about Sydyk?"

The FBI agent frowned archly. "You read my report," he replied shortly. "He's a damned murderer, that's what I know."

"Anything more specific than that, Special Agent McCormick?" Colonel Dixon did not look thrilled to have an FBI agent poking around. Frankly, Daniel wasn't too excited by the prospect, either. On the other hand, the FBI had a lot of man-hunting resources they might actually need, as well as the legal _civilian_ authority behind it. The fact that the situation was already a public nightmare would doubtless give the IOA apoplexy.

Agent McCormick glowered slightly, his jaw tightening in annoyance. "I have spent the last few days tracking this man and his so-called 'high priests.' Before that, I was at his compound, walking among the corpses of men, women, and children, _children_! People who had been fanatically devoted to him, discarded like trash. Eighty four people, just dead. Let me tell you, gentlemen: serial killers are my bread and butter, but this turned my stomach."

The agent looked away for a moment, as if lost in the horrific memory. Daniel knew exactly how he felt; he'd seen more than a few things that haunted him. McCormick shook it off, however, and continued.

"I know that Sydyk was an older man, possibly in his sixties, Caucasian, with white hair and slightly on the paunchy side. I know that he has a specific hatred of the American military, particularly the United States Air Force."

"I wonder why _that_ is," muttered Dixon.

Daniel shot him a look, which the colonel totally ignored.

Special Agent McCormick raised an eyebrow. "It was what led me to Colorado Springs once I noticed the route he and his men were taking. I don't need to remind you gentlemen that there are five military installations in the area, including the Air Force Academy. The hit on my BOLO seems to have proven me right. Now, do you have him or not?"

"_Not_," Dixon replied immediately. They certainly weren't about to tell an FBI agent that former Vice President Robert Kinsey was still alive (if not exactly _well_ at this point). That would require more explanation than any of them wanted to give. "Sydyk cleared out before we arrived."

"Damn him," McCormick said softly. "I can assure you gentlemen that he won't escape this city. Do you know why he was here?"

"At this particular house? Well, an Air Force enlisted man and his family live here," Daniel remarked, thinking fast. "It's possible that he wanted to use him to get access to secure military facilities."

"Terrorist attack."

"Exactly," Daniel agreed. _Eh, close enough._ "Look, Special Agent McCormick, there's something else you should know. Sydyk's got his hands on some very dangerous, very classified weapons. There's no telling how much damage he could do, which is one of the reasons the Air Force is involved in this. I wish we could say more, but…" He glanced at Colonel Dixon, who crossed his arms uncompromisingly.

For the first time, McCormick actually seemed surprised. "Really. That's good to know. Thank you for telling me. Anything else?"

Daniel shared a meaningful look with Colonel Dixon. They couldn't leave it at that. One word to the cops, and he'd know they'd left out some very important details.

"We captured some of his men, but we're looking for two more people," Daniel said carefully. "We think that they tracked Sydyk from Washington, same as you. They were here just before we arrived, and we're hoping they can lead us to Sydyk."

McCormick blinked. "And just who are these… individuals?"

Daniel repeated the description that Officer Ayres had given to them. It wasn't exactly very helpful in narrowing things down. They'd have to sit the kid down with a sketch artist. More delays.

The FBI agent seemed to agree with that assessment, to judge by his deepening frown. "Anyone know who that car belongs to?" he asked in sudden non-sequitur.

"What car?" Daniel glanced around in confusion.

"The one I parked next to, with the Washington State plates."

Both Daniel and Colonel Dixon turned to see where McCormick was looking. Sure enough, just visible through the crowd there was a silver sedan with a Washington State license plate, parked innocuously on the side of the road.

"It doesn't belong to Sydyk, I can assure you. They were in a dark blue or black American-made SUV, possibly an Escalade, as recently as Utah," McCormick said matter-of-factly. "It's probably parked nearby. If you don't mind waiting a few minutes, gentlemen, I would be glad to run the sedan's license plate through our database and tell you who it belongs to."

* * *

><p>It wasn't as far away the airman's house as Methos would like (<em>Madagascar<em> wasn't as far as he'd like at this point), but he needed somewhere that they wouldn't be immediately disturbed. Sydyk's own bolt hole looking over the Cheyenne Mountain access road would do nicely for the moment, but he couldn't guarantee it for long, since Daniel Jackson and his people no doubt had Sydyk's cronies by now.

He had a little time, at least: for the bastards to wake up from the drumming he gave them, and then for one or more of them to be broken by interrogation. Methos hated to rely on fanatic devotion as a shield, because such things could always be manipulated if one knew how.

There was the possibility that Sydyk's former host, the old man, might reveal something, but Methos doubted he'd be strong enough to answer questions in earnest for hours at the earliest.

"Why have you brought me here?" Sydyk demanded, clearly recognizing where they were going.

"Two reasons, actually," Methos replied. "First, to show you that I have been watching you, so don't try anything stupid. Second, because this is the last place Daniel Jackson and his friends will look for you. They'll think that you've scarpered, cut your losses and ran to live and fight another day."

Let Sydyk think that. It was one reason, and a fairly passable one to someone as self-centered as this Goa'uld.

He pulled his car into the driveway. He didn't have a key to the house, but he still had Amanda's lock picks.

"Your time here on this planet has taught you some… interesting… skills, I see," Sydyk noted archly as Methos manipulated the lock with ease.

Slipping the picks back into his pocket, Methos opened the front door and gestured grandly for Sydyk to precede him. "After you."

He most certainly did not want the snake at his back, armed or not. Sydyk, happily, did not argue the point, and strode regally in. Methos frowned slightly – was that a hint of Amanda's slink in that walk?

Keep fighting, he urged her, feeling slightly disturbed by the potential implications.

Inside was a very pleasantly furnished home; nothing too ostentatious or gaudy, the expense was in the subtle touches. No doubt the Goa'uld thought it perfectly dreary. Oh, wait, the family room had an enormous television. Maybe Sydyk had spent its free time rotting its brain on daytime soaps.

"I must examine this body in detail," the parasite declared. "I have never taken a female host before. The feeling is... " Amanda's hands ran up and down her body sensually, "...quite different."

"I can only imagine," he replied, resisting the urge to retch in disgust.

Methos's silent internal horror and revulsion went unnoticed by the creature inhabiting the body of his friend. The Goa'uld merely turned away, dropping articles of clothing as it slinked towards one of the bedrooms.

Methos scooped up Amanda's discarded mobile phone, which had bounced free as Sydyk had shed the coat on the hard marble entry. He dropped it into one of the many pockets of his own coat, which he draped on the couch.

At the same time, he slipped free his concealed handgun. Now was probably the best opportunity he would have to take down the Goa'uld: it was distracted and defenseless, and hopefully would not expect the sudden seeming betrayal after "Tanith" had gone through the effort of saving it earlier. He couldn't afford to wait much longer, nor, he suspected, could Amanda.

Methos tightened his grip on the gun almost unconsciously.

He had to be quick.


	39. Jurisdictional Compromises

Special Agent McCormick returned after only a short time, armed with a tablet computer and a satisfied smirk.

"Now, gentlemen, before we go any further, there is something we must get straight," he said smugly.

"Oh, great, you want to get into a jurisdictional pissing match, don't you," Dixon growled.

Daniel felt a headache forming between his eyes.

"Not at all, Colonel. You know as well as I do that the Posse Comitatus Act forbids military involvement in law enforcement actions. Not to mention that this was my case well before you boys got involved," the FBI agent argued, raising a hand to cut off Dixon's pending explosion. "Now, before you say anything else, I'm willing to compromise here."

"What do you have in mind, Agent McCormick?" asked Daniel before Dixon could suggest that McCormick stick his compromise where the sun don't shine. As far as Dixon was concerned, it wasn't as if the SGC couldn't just completely ignore McCormick, as 'aliens' fell under the jurisdiction of Homeworld Security, not the Department of Justice.

"You said that Sydyk had some fancy classified military toys, so I'm assuming that you know what we'd be dealing with in that regard much better than I do. I'd be willing to sign whatever non-disclosure forms regarding your secrets and let you accompany me as my backup. I think we all agree that time is of the essence here?" McCormick shot a look at both Daniel and Dixon.

It wasn't perfect, but it was better than wasting time arguing the point, knocking McCormick out, or waiting for the IOA to show up. And Daniel knew how much Dixon (and pretty much everyone else at the SGC, himself included) _loved_ the IOA.

"Fine," Dixon ground out between gritted teeth. "McCaffrey! Get over here!"

Airman McCaffrey appeared at Dixon's side as quickly as if he'd be carried there by Asgard transporters.

"Sir?"

"You got a copy of the SGC NDA on that tablet of yours?"

"Yes, sir," McCaffrey replied, as if this sort of thing were totally commonplace.

"Pull it up and hand it over to Special Agent McCormick here. We're bringing him along." And, boy, did Dixon look sour about it.

McCaffrey pulled the tablet off the back of his tac vest and tapped away at it for a few seconds before handing it over to the FBI agent, who accepted it in slight bemusement as he slid it over his own tablet.

"You keep a copy of a non-disclosure agreement on you?" he asked rhetorically as his eyes ran over the text, his finger sliding across the screen to scroll. His expression grew darker, doubtless as he reached the part of the document that read _If you say anything, you will never be seen again by anyone on this planet_ or something like that.

After what seemed like an eternity, he paused briefly, his finger hovering above the screen. Then he signed the agreement and handed the tablet back to McCaffrey.

"Great. Now that that's out of the way, what did you find out?" Dixon demanded.

Agent McCormick's lips twitched slightly in the shadow of a smile. "Thanks to the sedan I pointed out to you, I have identified one of the people you're looking for, and I'm pretty sure I know why she was here. She goes by a number of aliases, but she's a French-born thief by the name of Amanda Darieux, and I suspect that she was after those top-secret weapons of yours."

He held out his own tablet to reveal a driver's license photo accompanied by a criminal file.

Daniel felt like he had suddenly stepped off a very tall cliff.

"Uh… I know her," he said faintly.

"_What_?!"

"Hold on." Daniel pulled out his phone, tapping on the Contacts section. He was right. She had put her number in his phone, as he'd suspected. Right at the top of his Contact list was _Amanda_. He handed the phone to McCormick. "Can you do get a GPS lock on that phone number?"

"Take but a moment," McCormick replied. In another second he was on his own phone. "Miss Penelope? Yes, it's Matthew. Could you do me a favor and find me a location on a phone? It's urgent... Thank you so much."

"How the hell do you know this Amanda person?" Dixon demanded in a low voice.

"She claimed to be a friend of Adam Pierson, the guy who looked… like…" Daniel trailed off again. No, it couldn't be. This was getting just too weird, even for him.

"Doc!" Dixon prompted him.

"He looked like the Goa'uld Tanith. But he _wasn't_ a Goa'uld, and he died in a car accident, so it couldn't be him with her on the video, but I'm pretty sure that was his voice!" This made no sense whatsoever.

"_Doc_!"

"_I know!_"

"I have a location on Amanda Darieux's phone," McCormick announced abruptly, slipping his own phone back into his jacket. "Though I'm not sure I want to know how you came to have the phone number of a notorious international thief, Doctor Jackson."

"It's a long story," Daniel temporized. He actually had the phone number of a notorious _interstellar_ thief, too, come to think about it. The headache he'd been fighting was now full-blown. "How about we just go catch her and Sydyk and worry about that later?"

"You two can ride with me. The rest of your team can follow behind," McCormick said, already turning back towards his SUV. "Let's go!"

McCormick slid into the driver's seat, while Dixon snagged the passenger's seat, leaving Daniel in the back. McCormick handed him his tablet, which now featured a map of Colorado Springs with a location pinned.

As they pulled out, McCormick hit the lights and siren and they sped off, followed closely by McCaffrey and the others in the truck. Sydyk would not slip away again.

"I've signed your secrecy form. Now that we're away from prying ears, maybe you gentlemen would mind filling me in on what's so damn important about these weapons that the United States Air Force is falling all over itself to catch a cult leader?" McCormick said with a remarkable mix of both ice and fire.

"Aliens," grunted Dixon from the front seat after a long moment.

Daniel really, really needed some Excedrin right about now. Although, he admitted to himself, it could have been worse. Jack could have been there and said _magnets_.


	40. Ever Get That Feeling

**Author's Note**: This chapter contains descriptions of violent death.

* * *

><p>"I don't know whether you're leading me on or not. Sounds like the plot of a TV show to me," McCormick complained darkly five minutes later.<p>

"Oh, no, no… well, yes, but that was for the sake of plausible deniability. I think you can understand why we need to keep this all so secret," Daniel replied, holding on for dear life as McCormick practically two-wheeled the SUV around a corner. He could only imagine what it was like for McCaffrey and the guys in the even less-wieldy truck behind them.

"So, Sydyk is an alien who takes over people's bodies."

"That's the gist of it. Take a left at the next signal," directed Colonel Dixon. "We found the old man you thought was Sydyk, but the snake'd already jumped ship."

"Into either Amanda Darieux or man with her, who overpowered Sydyk's high priests," McCormick replied, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

"That pretty much covers it," Daniel agreed dryly.

"And you're sure about this? But if your tale of classified weapons was just a cover for this alien business, why would Amanda be there in the first place? She's a thief."

"Left! Left!" Dixon directed, gesturing almost violently at the intersection. They were going so fast that they had to dodge around surprised civilian cars whose drivers barely had time to register the sound of the siren, let alone figure out where it was coming from. "She's still not moving. Don't know if that's a good thing or not."

"It's possible that Sydyk doesn't realize we'd catch onto him so fast," suggested Daniel. "Thinks he's safe."

"Did you _see _where he is, Doc?" demanded Dixon.

"_Yes_, Colonel," Daniel replied pointedly. He hadn't missed the minor little detail that Amanda's phone was currently at a house abutting the Cheyenne Mountain access road. Daniel had learned a thing or two after all those years hanging around with military types (okay, mostly Jack): Sydyk had probably chosen the location so as to keep an eye on the comings and goings from the Mountain.

"Take the next right, and then just keep follow this street around. The street's really long and windy, but keep goin' straight," Dixon told McCormick. "And we have no frickin' clue why Darieux and her boy toy were there. Maybe they thought he _did _have weapons."

"We don't know that he _doesn't_ have something on him," Daniel pointed out pessimistically.

"What, like a hand device? Great, this day just keeps getting better and better. McCormick, you'd better kill the siren so they don't hear us coming. When we get there, you let us go in first. I don't care how good the training is at the FBI, _we're_ the ones who know what we're doing here. Stay behind us," the colonel ordered authoritatively.

McCormick didn't look happy as he toggled the siren off, but miraculously, he didn't argue. This neighborhood was much nicer than Simon Wells's: all the houses were at least two stories, with spacious, professionally manicured yards and a breathtaking view over Colorado Springs and Cheyenne Mountain. All this was rather lost on Daniel at the moment (and, to be honest, most of the time even when he _wasn't_ chasing after Goa'ulds on the loose).

Apparently, however, it wasn't lost on Dixon.

"Wish Lanie and I could've afforded one of these when the kids were little," he remarked absently as the houses flew by.

"The commute would've driven you crazy. You'd have to go all the way around to get to the access road," Daniel replied.

"No cutting across. Damn. There! That's the house, according to your tablet here" Dixon said abruptly, pointing at one of the houses. There really wasn't much to distinguish it from any of the other homes on this street: large house, spacious and well-tended yard, nice view. There was a car parked in the driveway, but it had unremarkable Colorado plates.

McCormick pulled over his SUV, with McCaffrey and the others right behind them in the truck. McCormick took back his tablet from Dixon and tapped away at it for a few seconds.

"That car's registered to a local rental agency. Nothing special about it, unless you gentlemen would like me to track down the owner instead of seeing if he's inside?" the FBI agent suggested sarcastically.

"We'll worry about it later," replied Daniel. "Sydyk's what's important here."

"Tell me, if Sydyk's a body-snatching alien snake, what's to prevent the thing from taking one of us?" McCormick asked with a pensive expression.

"Switching hosts is rough on a Goa'uld. Given that he just took a new host, he probably won't be strong enough to change again so soon," Daniel explained.

"That, and you stay out of reach of flying snakes," added Colonel Dixon helpfully as he climbed out of the car.

The FBI raised an eyebrow, apparently trying to decide whether Dixon was being serious or not.

"Oh, he's not kidding, Agent McCormick," Daniel sagely agreed.

"Everyone knows I never joke," the colonel said dryly as McCaffrey and the rest of the team formed up around them. "Okay, boys and girls, you know the drill. Let's take this bastard down."

For the second time that day, they approached an innocuous house in Colorado Springs in search of a homicidal Goa'uld. As McCaffrey and the others circled around back, Daniel, Dixon, and McCormick waited by the front door. McCormick seemed extremely tense, his eyes focused on the door like a pair of laser beams as his hands tightly gripped his sidearm.

"_In position at the rear,"_ Airman McCaffrey reported over the radio, his voice tinny in Daniel's earpiece. "_No one visible from here."_

Dixon grasped the door knob and cautiously tested it. It turned freely in his hand; the door was unlocked.

"Ever get that feeling you've done something before? Weird," he said in a low voice.

Daniel and McCormick both stared at him expectantly.

"Never mind. Alright folks, move in!" Dixon ordered into his radio as he shoved the door open.

Moments later, the team swarmed into the house, with Daniel and the FBI agent bringing up the rear. At first, everything seemed normal inside as they started checking every room. Nothing appeared to be out of place, and there was no immediate sign of Sydyk or Amanda's companion. Whoever it turned out to be.

"_Front entry clear."_

"_Back pantry clear."_

"_Living room clear."_

"_Kitchen clear."_

"_One down in-"_

The last voice was cut off suddenly. Daniel suddenly heard crashing, followed by the sharp report of a P-90 shattering the quiet. Everyone converged on the noise - it was a large house, but it wasn't _that_ large.

Unlike the rest of the house, the master bedroom suite looked like a war zone. Bullet holes decorated the walls, along with quite a lot of blood and one very large dent in the tasteful wood paneling. Crumpled on the floor below this dent was a dark-haired man with several limbs bent in very unnatural directions. His head appeared partially caved, possibly from the impact with the wall.

Across the room, Airman McCaffrey stood dazed, swaying slightly as he gripped his P-90. He reached up a hand to wipe some of the blood from his face, but only succeeded at smearing it, because his sleeve was also bloody. Several feet away, the mangled body of Amanda Darieux lay staring at nothing, her chest a mess of blood and ravaged flesh. On one arm glinted the tell-tale gold of a Goa'uld hand device.

"She was in the closet… she jumped out at me," McCaffrey said blankly. "She had a hand device. I had to fire. I had to…"

"It's alright, you did good," said Colonel Dixon. "Just take out your toy and make sure the snake's dead, too."

"Sir?" the airman stared in confusion, as if he didn't understand what Dixon was talking about.

"Here, I'll take that, Malcolm." Dixon gently took the P-90 away from an unresisting McCaffrey, who blinked at the colonel as he unclipped the weapon from the airman's vest. Daniel took it from Dixon, who held it back towards him.

Daniel tried not to grimace as he felt the slick blood on the stock as he flicked the safety on. He might not be military, but after all these years, he knew as well as any of them what a P-90 could do to a body when fired at close range. He handed it off to one of the Marines. Szymanski, was that his name? Something Polish...

"Lifesigns detector, right," McCaffrey shook his head, as if trying to clear out cobwebs. He pulled the Ancient device out of his vest and checked the readout as it lit up. "No one here but us, sir," he reported.

"Fantastic news, gentlemen," Agent McCormick remarked. Daniel glanced back at him in surprise; he'd practically forgotten the FBI agent was there. The agent examined the scene with an unreadable expression behind a cold professional mask. "If you'll excuse me, I have a few calls to make. Unless you'd rather explain the body-snatching alien to the Colorado Springs Police Department?"

Ignoring McCormick's commentary, Daniel stepped over to Amanda's mutilated corpse and knelt down. Thief or not, she hadn't deserved this. Gently, he reached over and closed her eyes.


	41. Only Mostly Dead Means Slightly Alive

After a long moment, Daniel gathered himself and stepped away from Amanda's body as Colonel Dixon took a shell-shocked McCaffrey to the bathroom to clean the worst of the blood.

It's not like they were worried about contaminating a crime scene, after all, no matter what Special Agent McCormick thought. There was really nothing to investigate here, after all.

Well, _mostly_ nothing.

Daniel knelt down next to the room's _other_ corpse. Upon closer examination, it really didn't look as bad is it had at first glance when he'd rushed in. Yes, the man's head was covered in blood, but it was actually otherwise intact.

Even with the gruesome gore, he could see the short dark hair, the strong nose: yes, this could definitely be Adam Pierson's twin. Tanith's twin. _Again_. Gingerly, he adjusted the dead man's arm to get a look at his wrist. He was right: this corpse carried the exact same strange "Y" tattoo as Adam Pierson.

He stared into the dead man's eyes in frustration, as if by strength of will he could simply force answers to appear. _What was going on here?_

The dead eyes blinked.

Daniel actually stumbled backwards, falling onto his backside as he scrambled away and grabbed for his sidearm.

The other SGC personnel immediately raised their weapons, aiming them at the man who was now not-as-dead-as-previously-suspected.

"Colonel!" called Szymanski (Daniel was sure that was his name). "We got a live one here!"

The Pierson/Tanith lookalike blinked again. With a rather disgusting and audible _snap_, his seemingly broken bones popped back into place. With a groan, he shifted himself, only to lock eyes with Daniel and the plethora of guns now pointed in his direction.

"_Oh, merda!"_ the man muttered under his breath.

Now it was Daniel's turn to blink at the unexpected profanity, Latin though it was. It shattered the stunned silence that had fallen on the room.

"Keep your hands where we can see them," Szymanski ordered, as if dead man coming back to life on their own was an everyday occurrance. Close, but no cigar.

"Sure, no problem," replied the no-longer-dead man, who grimaced as he held out his hands to show they were empty. He spoke with a bland Midwestern American accent, just like in the police car's dash cam video. Despite that, however, he still sounded exactly like Adam Pierson to Daniel. "Though maybe you can tell me who you are and why you're all pointing guns at me?"

"You're kidding, right?" Daniel asked as he climbed up from the ground, keeping his sidearm trained on the formerly dead man. "You were dead, and now you're not."

"Well, obviously you made a mistake, because I'm clearly _not_ dead."

"Next thing you're going to say is that you were only _mostly_ dead." Colonel Dixon did not sound impressed with the man's explanation. "Who the hell are you?"

"Dr. Benjamin Adams. Who're you?" he asked amiably, as if there weren't a room full of Marines and airmen with their weapons pointed at his head.

"We'll be the ones asking the questions," Colonel Dixon glowered.

'Dr. Adams,' or whoever he was, seemed about to say something before his expression abruptly changed.

"Where is the woman who was with me?" he demanded with surprising fierceness, considering the fair number of deadly weapons pointed in his face.

"If you're referring to Amanda Darieux, notorious international thief, I'm afraid she's dead. Really, _actually _dead, unlike you, sir," said Agent McCormick from the doorway. "I'm Special Agent McCormick, FBI. Maybe you can tell us why you were in the house of a United States airman at the same time as a wanted cult leader from Washington State."

The man who identified himself as Benjamin Adams seemed to deflate a bit. "It's bit of a long story, and I'd prefer to not be covered in blood while telling it."

"Uh huh," grumbled Dixon. "This had better be the best story ever to explain coming back to life right in front of us."

"I don't have a clue what you're talking about, whoever you are," Adams replied.

"_Nempe nescis,"_ retorted Daniel dryly, not believing a word 'Adams' was saying.

"You're hilarious," the man snarked back immediately. "I know enough Latin to know a joker when I hear him. I'm a doctor, remember?"

"Oh, really? A doctor of _what_? Resurrection?" Colonel Dixon snapped sarcastically. "There was a crater the size of my fist in your head, genius!"

"Gentlemen," interrupted Agent McCormick, "can we continue this conversation in a more suitable location? I would like to have something to show for this whole debacle, after all, and the body of a wanted thief would go some ways to appeasing my superiors, since I can't bring them the man they wanted."

Dixon opened his mouth to speak before glancing at 'Adams' and changing his mind about whatever he was going to say. "Fine. Let's pack everything up and get back to base."

As Adams (or Pierson, or whoever he was) climbed to his feet, carefully keeping his hands in the open, he glanced at the destroyed room, his eyes finally lighting on Amanda's corpse. The damage from the P-90 fired at close range had pretty much destroyed her entire torso.

He looked like he wanted to say something, but then he just shifted to stare at Daniel with an expression that seemed equal parts sadness and confusion. He made no move to resist as Szymanski zip-tied his hands and they marched him out of the bedroom.

"Do I get a lawyer?" Pierson/Adams's voice drifted plaintively back, the question sounding ironically normal under the circumstances.

* * *

><p>He was sure of one thing: this was shaping up to be his worst week ever, and for a person as old as he, that was <em>definitely<em> saying something. How had this happened?!

Methos was _sure_ he'd only been gone a few minutes this time, but somehow Daniel Jackson and his well-armed posse of American military goons had shown up in that short space of time, complete with that Immortal FBI agent in tow!

At least Agent McCormick wasn't interested in him, that much Methos knew. Else he would have done something when their paths crossed back at that intersection. Furthermore, although Methos had never met him in person, he knew the other man by reputation and suspected quite strongly that he had been chasing after Sydyk, same as Amanda had been.

Amanda.

The damage to her body had been extensive, to say the least, no doubt thanks to one of those boxy little rifles wielded by Daniel Jackson's Air Force friends. Unfortunately there was no way for Methos to know for certain if Sydyk had been killed with her. He doubted the thing survived the shredding of Amanda's torso by the barrage of high-speed bullets any more than she had. At the moment, the only Immortal he could sense was McCormick (though that was bad enough all things considered).

As Daniel's compatriots loaded him into their waiting truck, Methos silently cursed himself for a fool for letting Sydyk get the better of him. He should've realized that the creature would have weapons hidden at its own hideout, but he'd been thrown so off kilter by everything that had happened that he hadn't recognized the danger of the piece of golden jewelry until Sydyk used it to smash him into the wall.

At least the snake hadn't known to take his head, but the truth of the matter was that Methos was pretty much back where this mess all began: in the hands of the United States military. Except it was even worse the second time around, because they now had Amanda's body, too.

Perhaps McCormick would be able to negotiate Amanda's corpse out of their hands before she came back to life. He'd probably throw her in jail, if he could, but that was life for a thief like Amanda.

To judge by the suspicion on Daniel Jackson's face, however, _Methos_ would not be so lucky this time.

It certainly didn't help that he was sitting next to a guy pretty well covered with Amanda's blood.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes<strong>: I won't translate Methos's Latin exclamation for you, as it's really not polite. He's had a stressful day, and an even worse week. Daniel's quip translates to something like "Of course you don't know," with a serious emphasis on the sarcasm. Also, the title of this chapter is a reference to _The Princess Bride_, which is a fantastic movie everyone should see at least once.


	42. Hotseat

"Okay, boys and girls, let's pack it up," Colonel Dixon ordered curtly. "Grab anything that looks hinky and we'll take it back to the SGC. Szymanski, Lee, you two grab a sheet or something and get the snakehead to the truck. After that, stay here and wait for Bates and his IOA boys to get here for the mop up."

"You mean cover up, I presume?" remarked Special Agent McCormick arching an eyebrow wryly.

"Operational security's the name of the game up at Cheyenne Mountain, McCormick. Whaddaya think would happen if word got out about what's goin' on up there?" Dixon countered as the SGC team snapped to his orders.

Daniel winced as they less-than-gently rolled Amanda's body over onto a sheet pulled from the bed. He understood why it wasn't really a good idea to leave a Goa'uld, even a dead one, behind, but it still didn't sit well with him as they carried her out of the room.

"Oh, I know, believe me, sir, I know," the FBI agent replied fervently to Colonel Dixon. "And as God's my witness, I have all the respect in the world for the job you gentlemen do. But this mess with Sydyk's in the public view, there's no two ways about it. There'll be people wondering what happened. Let me help."

"Really? How?" asked Dixon dubiously.

"Same way I've _been_ helping you. Keep this an FBI matter on the surface, and people won't poke too deeply, maybe start asking questions about why a troop of airmen was apparently conducting an operation on American soil against American citizens."

There was no humor at all on McCormick's handsome face, nor in his tone. In fact, to Daniel he looked like he'd aged twenty years in the short time since they'd met. There was as much weariness in his eyes as any of the battle-hardened veterans of Stargate Command.

Jack looked like that sometimes.

"Please, Colonel, you and your men do more than anyone should be asked to do. Let me make your lives easier. I'm assuming I'll need to go back with you to your operations center at Cheyenne Mountain for debriefing. I can interrogate this Dr. Adams at the same time, with you and your people observing. After all, I've a lot of experience in the interrogation room, much more, I suspect, than any of you gentlemen. This way, we can keep Adams, or whoever he is, in the nominal custody of the FBI. And maybe get some answers for you."

Dixon glanced at Daniel.

Daniel shrugged.

"I've heard worse ideas," Daniel replied. "Agent McCormick _does_ need to come back with us, and the SGC does _not_ need the visibility."

"Seems to me like placing an awful lotta trust in a guy we just met," grumbled the colonel in annoyance. "Let General Landry decide when we get back to base."

"That's fine with me, Colonel," Agent McCormick readily agreed. He took a step closer to Dixon and lowered his voice, which yet doubled intensity. "You may not know _me_, but you know the oath I took to protect this country. I take my word of honor as seriously as I suspect you do, sir."

McCormick's hazel eyes met Colonel Dixon's dark blue.

"Noted," Dixon said after a long moment.

"Colonel Dixon!" called one of the men from another room, breaking the tension of the moment. "Something you should see here."

* * *

><p>Methos resisted the urge to twiddle his thumbs while waiting in the back of the truck being watched suspiciously by a large, grumpy-looking… soldier? Sailor? Marine? Airman. Cheyenne Mountain Complex was an Air Force facility, and Methos would bet good money these men were from there.<p>

Eh, Methos could take him, even zip-tied as he was.

Truth be told, his guard didn't bother him quite so much as the other person in the truck with them, the man with Amanda's blood spattered all across his uniform (and a few traces of it on his face, near his hairline).

The man just stared with this expression of utter confusion. He looked… lost. Methos had seen that face before. It went by many names over the years: railway spine, shell shock, battle fatigue, combat stress reaction.

These days, it was post-traumatic stress disorder. The doctor in Methos pitied the man.

_Just imagine what it would do to his current mental state if he witnessed Amanda coming back to life._ Methos had no way of knowing how long she would stay dead, and hoped for this other man's sake (not to mention his own) that it would be longer rather than shorter. Of course, if the airman were unlucky, he might see a lot worse before the end.

At least Sydyk hadn't managed to kill the man. That would have made this situation unspeakably worse; it was, sadly, one of Methos's few bits of good luck this entire week.

Finally, a couple of the traumatized man's compatriots arrived, carrying between them a bloodied sheet containing Amanda's body. With typical perfunctory courtesy, they loaded it on the floor of the truck.

"Hey, hang in there, McCaffrey," one of them said sympathetically to the blood-spattered airman. "You'll be back to base in no time."

The man, McCaffrey, blinked but otherwise didn't seem to acknowledge them much. He also didn't look at the body on the floor.

Methos felt the distant Buzz of the other Immortal, the FBI agent, growing stronger. McCormick climbed into the truck, accompanied by Daniel Jackson and a man who Methos presumed was the officer in charge of the airmen, likely a colonel judging by his age and air of authority.

Daniel was carrying Methos's coat, which was bundled up around the two swords, Methos's Ivanhoe and Amanda's more delicate rapier.

Oh, yeah, this was _not_ his week.

No one had produced his gun, so he presumed they hadn't found it. Methos guessed that it had flown out of his hand when he'd been blasted into the wall by Sydyk's piece of golden jewelry. Maybe it had fallen behind the bed or just plain out of sight.

Doubtless they would find it sooner or later.

Time to take the offensive.

"Who are you people? If you're really with the FBI, I demand to speak to a lawyer," he insisted as someone started the engine of the truck and they began to move, no doubt taking them back to their little underground base. "I'm a U.S. citizen, I have the right of habeas corpus!"

"You'll get your lawyer, sir," replied McCormick, who stared back at him blandly. "Though, lawyer or not, you should know that you'll be expected to answer some very serious questions."

"Maybe you could answer some of _my_ questions, like what the hell happened to my brother?"

McCormick didn't even blink.

"Your brother? And who might that be, sir?"

"Adam Pierson. Don't try to tell me that his death is just a coincidence now!" Methos snapped argumentatively.

Daniel Jackson's eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline.

"Wait, Adam Pierson is your _brother_?"

"I thought we were going to wait until we got back to base before we started in on askin' questions," muttered the Air Force officer.

"My twin brother. We were separated at birth and adopted by different families. We'd only just found each other recently through mutual friends," Methos explained, spinning his tale. "You can't imagine how amazing it was for me to learn that I had a twin brother. The only way we can… could… be told apart was because of our accents. My adoptive parents were English, but they immigrated to the United States when I was a baby. I grew up here, Adam remained in the U.K."

"That tattoo?" Daniel pointed to the Watcher's tattoo on Methos's wrist.

"That's actually how we met. There's a sort of historical society, lots of us got matching tattoos. I was a stupid kid back then. Thought it was cool. Anyway, a friend of mine, Joe, he'd met Adam in Paris, and when he got back he couldn't wait to tell me all about the guy who looked just like me. And that's how Adam and I learned about each other."

"Quite a coincidence," Agent McCormick remarked.

"You're not wrong. The universe has a way of messing with you just when you think that your life is going according to plan. Anyway, Adam and I connected by email first, then phone. He took a sabbatical from Paris, and we agreed to meet here in Colorado Springs. Instead, I get here and find out he was just killed in a car accident!" Methos allowed just the right amount of frustration to seep into his voice.

"How did you know Amanda Darieux?" the FBI agent inquired.

"I didn't, really. Amanda said she was a friend of Adam's. He hadn't told her I was coming, so she was really surprised when I showed up at the door demanding answers!" Methos exclaimed.

"So, what happened this afternoon?"

"Honestly, I've no clue. None. It was the weirdest thing. Amanda said that she had something she needed to do, asked me to meet her. So, we get to the other house, she goes in. I hear noises, like fighting. She comes back out, but she's totally off. Acting like a different person altogether. Cold. Freaked the hell out of me. Then the cops started arriving, and she told me that I would have to get us away or she'd kill me. I believed her. So I came up with some excuse to the cop, and she made me drive us here. The whole setup screamed 'serial killer' to me, so when I thought I had a chance, I attacked her and tried to escape."

"Yeah, that worked out _great_," drawled the Air Force officer.

Methos shot a glare at him.

"She did something, I don't know what. The last thing I remember was flying through the air. And then I woke up, and you guys were there," Methos concluded.

"Great story," the officer said snarkily, "except for the part where you were _dead_."

"Look, I have no clue what you're talking about. How could I have been dead?!" the Immortal protested forcefully, holding out his bound hands demonstratively. "I just have one hell of a headache, that's all," he concluded more plaintively, gently touching the caked blood on the side of his head. He really needed a shower.

He could sense Daniel Jackson's eyes on him, but resisted the urge to look at him, instead keeping his gaze fixed on the more overtly threatening figures of the officer and the FBI agent. That's where an innocent person would look, not the archaeologist in the back. He also shot nervous glances at the blood-spattered figure of the airman who'd killed Amanda, and one swallowing look down at the corpse by his feet.

He really hoped that the creature wouldn't somehow come back to life with her.

* * *

><p>Methos resisted the urge to twiddle his thumbs while waiting in the back of the truck being watched suspiciously by a large, grumpy-looking… soldier? Sailor? Marine? Airman. Cheyenne Mountain was an Air Force facility, and Methos would bet good money these men were from there.<p>

Eh, Methos could take him, even zip-tied as he was.

Truth be told, his guard didn't bother him quite so much as the other person in the truck with them, the man with Amanda's blood spattered all across his uniform (and a few traces of it on his face, near his hairline).

The man just stared with this expression of utter confusion. He looked… lost. Methos had seen that face before. It went by many names over the years: railway spine, shell shock, battle fatigue, combat stress reaction.

These days, it was post-traumatic stress disorder. The doctor in Methos pitied the man.

_Just imagine what it would do to his mental state if he witnessed Amanda coming back to life._ Methos had no way of knowing how long she would stay dead, and hoped for this other man's sake (not to mention his own) that it would be longer rather than shorter.

Finally, a couple of his compatriots arrived, carrying between them a blood-soaked sheet containing Amanda's body. They loaded it on the floor of the truck.

"Hey, hang in there, McCaffrey," one of them said sympathetically. "You'll be back to base in no time."

The man, McCaffrey, blinked, but otherwise didn't seem to acknowledge them. He also didn't look at the body on the floor.

Methos felt the distant Buzz of the other Immortal, the FBI agent, growing stronger. McCormick climbed into the truck, accompanied by Daniel Jackson and a man who Methos presumed was the officer in charge of the airmen, likely a colonel judging by his age and air of authority.

Daniel was carrying Methos's coat, which was bundled up around the two swords, Methos's Ivanhoe and Amanda's more delicate rapier.

Oh, yeah, this was _not_ his week.

No one had produced his gun, so he presumed they hadn't found it. Methos guessed that it had flown out of his hand when he'd been blasted into the wall by Sydyk's piece of golden jewelry. Maybe it had fallen behind the bed or just plain out of sight.

Doubtless they would find it sooner or later.

Time to take the offensive.

"Who are you people? If you're really with the FBI, I demand to speak to a lawyer," he insisted as someone started the engine of the truck and they began to move, no doubt taking them back to their little underground base. "I'm a U.S. citizen, I have the right of habeas corpus!"

"You'll get your lawyer, sir," replied McCormick, who stared back at him blandly. "Though, lawyer or not, you should know that you'll be expected to answer some very serious questions."

"Maybe you could answer some of _my_ questions, like what the hell happened to my brother?"

McCormick didn't even blink.

"Your brother? And who might that be, sir?"

"Adam Pierson. Don't try to tell me that his death is just a coincidence now!" Methos snapped argumentatively.

Daniel Jackson's eyebrows shot up almost to his hairline.

"Wait, Adam Pierson is your _brother_?"

"I thought we were going to wait until we got back to base before we started in on askin' questions," muttered the Air Force officer.

"My twin brother. We were separated at birth and adopted by different families. We'd only just found each other recently through mutual friends," Methos explained, spinning his tale. "You can't imagine how amazing it was for me to learn that I had a twin brother. The only way we can… could… be told apart was because of our accents. My adoptive parents were English, but they immigrated to the United States when I was a baby. I grew up here, Adam remained in the U.K."

"That tattoo?" Daniel pointed to the Watcher's tattoo on Methos's wrist.

"That's actually how we met. There's a sort of historical society, lots of us got matching tattoos. I was a stupid kid back then. Thought it was cool. Anyway, a friend of mine, Joe, he'd met Adam in Paris, and when he got back he couldn't wait to tell me all about the guy who looked just like me. And that's how Adam and I learned about each other."

"Quite a coincidence," Agent McCormick remarked.

"You're not wrong. The universe has a way of messing with you just when you think that your life is going according to plan. Anyway, Adam and I connected by email first, then phone. He took a sabbatical from Paris, and we agreed to meet here in Colorado Springs. Instead, I get here and find out he was just killed in a car accident!" Methos allowed just the right amount of frustration to seep into his voice.

"How did you know Amanda Darieux?" the FBI agent inquired.

"I didn't, really. Amanda said she was a friend of Adam's. He hadn't told her I was coming, so she was really surprised when I showed up at the door demanding answers!" Methos exclaimed.

"So, what happened this afternoon?"

"Honestly, I've no clue. None. It was the weirdest thing. Amanda said that she had something she needed to do, asked me to meet her. So, we get to the other house, she goes in. I hear noises, like fighting. She comes back out, but she's totally off. Acting like a different person altogether. Cold. Then the cops started arriving, and she told me that I would have to get us away or she'd kill me. I believed her. So I came up with some excuse to the cop, and she made me drive us here. The whole setup screamed 'serial killer' to me, so when I thought I had a chance, I attacked her and tried to escape."

"Yeah, that worked out _great_," drawled the Air Force officer.

Methos shot a glare at him.

"She did something, I don't know what. The last thing I remember was flying through the air. And then I woke up, and you guys were there," Methos concluded.

"Great story," the officer said snarkily, "except for the part where you were _dead_."

"Look, I have no clue what you're talking about. How could I have been dead?!" the Immortal protested forcefully, holding out his bound hands demonstratively. "I just have one hell of a headache, that's all," he concluded more plaintively, gently touching the caked blood on the side of his head. He really needed a shower.

He could sense Daniel Jackson's eyes on him, but resisted the urge to look at him, instead keeping his gaze fixed on the more overtly threatening figures of the officer and the FBI agent. That's where an innocent person would look, not the archaeologist in the back. He also shot nervous glances at the blood-spattered figure of the airman who'd killed Amanda, and one swallowing look down at the corpse by his feet.

He really hoped that the creature wouldn't somehow come back to life with her.


	43. Back to the Barn

As Special Agent McCormick continued to question Dr. Adams _("Where were you born?" "Cardiff, so my parents told me. Ever been?")_, Daniel took the opportunity to really take a look at the man who claimed to be Adam Pierson's twin brother.

Despite the drying blood sticking to his dark hair and the side of his head, he had the same youthful appearance that could pass for any grad student. Same dark hazel eyes, same regal nose. And despite his American accent, even some of his inflections were similar, to Daniel's linguist ears, though that could easily be due to his British-born adoptive parents.

Had he been entirely wrong about Adam Pierson and his apparent Ancient connections? Had Daniel been simply reading too deeply into everything? Could it be that, despite the Ancient DNA, Pierson and his twin actually didn't know anything about it?

It was getting to the point where Daniel couldn't believe that this had all started because Adam Pierson had looked just like Tanith. Now there were three of them!

Well, not that poor Hebron had anything to do with this, after all. He was born light-years away and died years ago. They'd pretty well established that by now.

Daniel wondered if it was possible for a person's head to explode from thinking too much about things like this.

He was forced to set aside his thoughts as they arrived at Cheyenne Mountain. Daniel scooped up the coat and swords they'd taken from the house and hopped out of the truck with the rest of Dixon's team and their, ah, guest.

Dr. Adams appeared cooperative, if resigned, and made no move at all to resist as the team took the elevators down, despite how crowded it was with all of them plus Amanda's corpse.

As they exited on the SGC levels, Colonel Dixon looked severely at Airman McCaffrey.

"Malcolm, head over to the infirmary and get yourself checked out, just in case. You look like hell," the colonel said.

"Sir, I'm fine. The snakehead didn't get close to me," McCaffrey protested, color flooding his cheeks for the first time since the incident at the house.

"Your tac vest says otherwise, Malcolm," retorted Dixon evenly, gesturing slightly with his head towards the blood-spattered item in question. "Just let the docs look you over. Then see the shrinks."

McCaffrey opened his mouth to protest again, but the colonel shot him a stern look.

"Do you need me to make it an order, Airman McCaffrey?" he said pointedly.

"No, sir," replied McCaffrey, his jaw twitching.

"Get goin' then. Grimsby, go with him. The rest of you, take the body to the docs and go get cleaned up. Stay on-base in case you're needed for debrief. Ziplinski!"

Sergeant Ziplinski and a couple other camo-wearing SGC security force personnel were waiting patiently nearby, having been notified that the team was inbound with a prisoner. He and his men stepped forward to take Dr. Adams into their custody.

"We'll want to talk to this guy later, Zip, so put him in secure quarters, okay?" Dixon ordered.

"Sir," acknowledged Ziplinski, not batting an eyelash at Adams's bloodied state. "This way," he told Adams, gesturing for him to come with them.

Heaving a sigh, Dr. Adams followed their direction. "Could you at least uncuff me?" he protested mildly, holding up his still-zip-tied hands. "I _promise_ I won't try to escape…"

Dixon turned wryly towards Daniel and Special Agent McCormick. "Somethin' tells me this debrief is gonna be real fun."

* * *

><p>An hour and more later, Daniel wondered whether Adams might be better off locked up in secure quarters than he and Dixon were, facing rather pointed questions from General Landry, who was not exactly thrilled with the way things happened (to put it mildly).<p>

Special Agent McCormick, to his great credit, managed _somehow_ to convince the general that it was actually a _good_ thing he'd been read in on everything, despite the circumstances. Despite McCormick's somewhat grim (if studiously polite) demeanor, the FBI agent was capable of pumping out incredible Southern charm, to which even General Landry did not prove immune.

_Cameron Mitchell would be proud_, Daniel thought with inward amusement.

"You can imagine my surprise, General Landry, when these gentlemen informed me that the cold-blooded cult leader I'd been hunting from Washington State turned out to be a body-snatching alien," the man remarked calmly, as if recounting a sudden unexpected spring rain. "I don't know how you do half of what you do, sir, but I respect you for it."

Landry's bushy eyebrows shot up, but Daniel could see that he appreciated, was even a little flattered by, the sentiment.

"Thank you, Agent McCormick. I trust you understand why none of this can go public," he replied with just a hint of warning in his voice.

"Probably better than most, sir," nodded McCormick darkly. "You have my word of honor that no word of this will pass my lips."

The way he spoke made him sound like an ancient knight taking an oath of fealty, Daniel thought. In a moment of strange dissonance, the FBI agent suddenly reminded Daniel of the Unas leader Iron Shirt. How would McCormick react if his honor were impugned?

"So, have you got any suggestions on how you're going to explain what happened to Sydyk _without_ bringing us into it?" General Landry asked.

"I received the assistance of a special team to take down a cult leader who wanted to commit an act of terror against the United States Air Force. We were able to capture his three lieutenants, but Sydyk was killed rather than allowing himself to be taken alive. No one will ask too many questions if one words a report precisely and files it carefully," the FBI agent remarked.

"What about Amanda Darieux?" Daniel asked suddenly.

"I'd like to take her body, if that would be possible," Special Agent McCormick replied. "Her death will likely make a lot of agents in the international art theft business quite relieved."

"We're not gonna let you walk outta here with a snakehead," Colonel Dixon protested.

"I hate to sound morbid, gentlemen, but can you not remove the creature from her and then release her body to me?" McCormick suggested pragmatically. "Thief or not, she should get a proper burial, even if it's in a potter's field. She didn't deserve to die the way she did, with some alien monster puppet-master controlling her body."

"Huh," grunted Dixon noncommittally, his gaze switching to General Landry.

"I'll think about it," the general conceded after a moment. "In the meantime, tell me about this new Tanith lookalike you found. He claims to be Adam Pierson's twin brother?"

Daniel winced.

"He sounded plausible to me, General," Daniel replied.

"More than plausible," agreed the FBI agent, sliding his tablet computer across the conference table over to the general. "While I was questioning him on the way here, I looked up the good Dr. Adams. He's got all sorts of documentation backing up his story. "

General Landry picked up the tablet and looked at the screen. "So, you're convinced he is who he says he is."

"As far as I'm concerned, the preponderance of evidence says that, yes."

"I'm tellin' you, that guy was dead when we got into the room," Colonel Dixon insisted. "McCaffrey even used the life signs detector. The guy was _dead_. And then he wasn't."

"General Landry, sir? I have the prisoner, as requested," interrupted the voice of Sergeant Ziplinski.

General Landry turned towards Ziplinski in confusion. Standing in front of Ziplinski was indeed Dr. Adams; now that the man had cleaned the blood from his head, there was no obvious sign of any injury at all, the only reminder being the faint browning stains on the shoulder of his shirt, which had obviously been scrubbed at in a sink.

"What? I haven't asked for him yet-" the general began, before someone stepped in the doorway behind Adams and Ziplinski and rolled something into the room.

There was a bright flash of light.


	44. Come and See

Methos woke with a surge of adrenaline, and this time it took pretty much every ounce of control he had to not surge upright.

_Wrong, wrong, wrong_, his animal instincts screamed, urging him to fight. He set aside the gibbering terror of that part of his brain and instead took stock of his situation.

He wasn't dead; that was nice. His head was still attached to his shoulders, though he could do without the pounding headache that little stun-ball-thing had left him with.

However, he was no longer on the floor of that conference room. He was slung like so much luggage with his bound hands beneath him on top of what felt like some sort of crate, with something else on the crate jabbing painfully into his ribs. All in all, it was a _very_ uncomfortable position.

Cracking his eyes open the tiniest fraction, Methos discovered something very disconcerting and definitely problematic.

He was blind.

Weighed against the likelihood that every single light source had failed, it was the more likely scenario, especially given the fact that his eyes felt like they were on fire. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, and he actually had to remind himself that the condition _had_ to be temporary. He was Immortal. His quickening would restore him.

Still, the sensation was more than a little unnerving for him.

Focusing on his other senses, he heard a strange, rippling sound coming from behind him, almost like bubbling water. The almost intangible pressure on his body meant he was still somewhere in Daniel's base, though. He heard boots approaching and suddenly the surface under him jerked into motion with a mechanical noise, rolling backwards and up some sort of incline towards the unidentifiable sound.

Methos suddenly got a feeling of imminent disaster, but before he could make any sort of move, a strange tingling sensation followed by a brief but bone-deep cold filled him. The entire world around him changed abruptly.

An aromatic yet earthy smell, a biting breeze carrying a hint of rain, the sound of insects and birds.

_No. Oh, no, this was not happening._

Unless he was hallucinating badly or Cassandra had appeared out of nowhere to cast one of her dream spells, Methos had just been carted through the Stargate and was no longer on Planet Earth. Given how much Cassandra hated him and would rather just take his head, he found the latter possibility far more likely.

After traveling some yards, his transport halted; Methos heard a brief slurping sound behind him, followed by a rushing noise as (Methos suspected) the Stargate shut down.

**"You are awake,"** came the deep, distorted voice which could only be from one person.

"You sound surprised," Methos replied, bending his neck in the direction of the Goa'uld Sydyk, even though he couldn't actually see him at the moment.

**"You cannot surprise a ****_god_****."** Methos could hear the sneer in Sydyk's voice, borrowed though it was. It sounded more masculine now than it had when he'd possessed Amanda. **"The ****_tok'tal_**** should have rendered you unconscious for far longer, but you are ****_hok'taur_****. That ****_shol'va_**** Tanith did not deserve such a host. Nor did that fool realize what he had in his possession. Hebron of Paraval."**

That was… surprisingly not good. Of course, if Methos was correct about the identity of the poor unfortunate soul currently being controlled by Sydyk, things could possibly get even worse. Methos subtly groped with his hands beneath him, hoping to find something useful.

"So, Sydyk, what's the plan now? You wanted to leave Earth. You've left," he stalled. With any luck, his vision would return quickly…

He was answered with a hard punch to his face. If he hadn't been secured by a couple of ropes to whatever it was he was on, he would probably have found himself on the ground.

**"Do not dare such presumption. You may be ****_hok'taur_****, but you are still a slave. I also know that you joined the Tok'ra before you were taken as host by that worm Tanith."**

Methos suddenly realized what had been jabbing him in the ribs. His fingers touched the familiar contours of the hilt of his Ivanhoe. A fierce joy flooded him for a moment: Sydyk might be a body-snatching monster, but he was also a magpie. He had seen the swords on the conference room table and couldn't help but take them with him.

"Tanith was a complete idiot, so it's not really surprising he's now _dead_," Methos replied, still stalling for time. He was telling the truth so far as he knew it, and Tanith _was_ dead, after all. Sydyk probably thought that the snake was dead because he could no longer sense Methos, since his new host wasn't Immortal… "Given the fact that _you_ aren't dead, I'm willing to wager that you're not as stupid as he was."

To be fair, Sydyk had successfully deceived Daniel and his friends into thinking he'd died with Amanda. That said, Sydyk _also_ actually put his prisoner right on top of a deadly weapon which was additionally very good at cutting things like zip ties.

**"You would do well to control your tongue, slave, lest I remove it. Then we shall see if you can recover from that wound as well as you did from the last injury I inflicted on you," **Sydyk said with silky menace, leaning closer but still out of reach.** "Or maybe I will just have you watch while I remove ****_Daniel Jackson's_**** tongue."**

_Great. Fantastic._ Methos awkwardly bend his legs and immediately kicked into a pair of boots dangling behind him. Sydyk was apparently quite the overachiever, because those boots were doubtless on the feet of the aforementioned archaeologist, also tied to the vehicle but still unconscious and currently as useless as a bag of dirt.

"The man means nothing to me," Methos smoothly lied. "He and his friends stood by while Tanith took me. Do what you like to him; I don't care."

Sydyk actually chuckled at that.

**"I see that I underestimated you, slave. You are entertainingly ruthless! Perhaps I won't simply dissect you as I had planned. Or maybe not!"** he laughed sadistically, stepping back.

"I bow to your wise benevolence," Methos drawled ironically as he felt the zip ties binding his wrists part as he gingerly maneuvered them against the blade of his Ivanhoe beneath him. He suppressed a painful wince as the sharp edge sliced into his hand, as well, but it wasn't exactly surprising, considering the position he was in. If he wasn't careful, more than his hand would be cut, and that would not help the situation at all.

Apparently bored of the conversation, Sydyk moved away. After a moment, there was an ominous sound of heavy metal _chunking_ into place, accompanied by what sounded by a series of half-muttered curses from the Goa'uld.

**"Ha're kree… Kel nok hashak… Kree shak nel! Go'tak!"**

Methos blinked. Sydyk didn't seem to be directing its tirade against him; it seemed self-directed, or… _Oh_. The host. Of course he'd be fighting. Not entirely successfully, to judge by Methos's current predicament, but enough to be annoying to the Goa'uld.

There was a pause in the Goa'uld's tirade, followed by a profound _whoosh_ from nearby. The Gate was open once more.

Then things went _really_ wrong.

**"Kel shok?!"**

A loud **_Bang!_** echoed off the hills Methos couldn't see. Then a building, palpable electricity charged the air.

Methos threw off any pretense of servility or helplessness and freed himself from the rope lashing him to the wheeled vehicle.

Sydyk's host had somehow seized enough control to shoot himself. Unfortunately, what the poor bastard had _not_ known was that he had been a pre-Immortal. "Had been" being the operative words. It was Methos's worst nightmare: the Goa'uld had somehow merged into the Immortality, entwined as it was with its host at the moment of death.

The electric charge in the air turned sour, twisted, wrong. There was no way for Methos to describe his sense of what kind of abomination had just been born. He grabbed for the Ivanhoe (actually splaying his hand all over Daniel Jackson's face for a moment before his fingers found the hilt).

The Buzz in his head was terrible, _sickening_. Not even _Kronos_ had felt this way to him. It was all Methos could do not to turn away and retch in disgust and horror.

_No_.

This wouldn't do. Methos stood tall and defiantly grasped the hilt of his Ivanhoe with both hands, the pain having already faded from his earlier self-inflicted cut.

Sydyk, or whatever it had become, _laughed_.

**"YOU FOOL. I am a GOD! WHO ARE YOU to raise a weapon against ME?!"**

Using Sydyk's own voice as his target, Methos swung. He felt the meaty thunk as the blade found its mark and cut through. The only sound for the moment was the tranquil rippling of the open Stargate.

"Death," Methos coldly replied to the corpse on the ground.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Most of the Goa'uld bits don't really _need_ to be translated, but for those who are unfamiliar with _Stargate_, a "hok'taur" is a genetically advanced or superior human. Some Goa'uld attempt to create such beings to serve as hosts to give them an advantage over the other Goa'uld. Only a few have really come close, such as Nirrti and her genetic engineering experiments. "Hok'taur" is a broad term and could theoretically refer to any number of specific "advanced" humans.

I feel really bad for Hebron of Paraval. Poor guy volunteered to be host to a possible defector to the Tok'ra, and then it turned out that Tanith was an evil Goa'uld infiltrator. Hebron never regained control of his own body before Tanith was blown up by Teal'c in "48 Hours."

For the record, the title of this chapter comes from Revelation 6:7-8: _And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see. And I looked, and beheld a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him._ For those unfamiliar with _Highlander_, Methos was once known as Death, one of the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, along with his blood-brothers Kronos (Pestilence), Silas (War), and Caspian (Famine). Their rampage and slaughter during the Bronze Age was horrific.


End file.
